


photo-proofed kisses i remember so well

by sorry_dad



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, F/F, F/M, Kinda, M/M, Slice of Life, Slow Burn, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, a testament to the beauty of youth, because this fic is purposefully Nice and Happy, can you tell i dont know how to tag? forgive me, grungy goth oswald, healthy romantic and platonic relationships, i care about these kids nobody hurt them ever please THANKS, inevitable completely happy ending, just generic high school drama tbh, kids being kids, teenage drama of course, what's the inverse of Canon Typical Violence?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-12
Updated: 2018-06-24
Packaged: 2018-08-21 23:44:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 41,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8264779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sorry_dad/pseuds/sorry_dad
Summary: oswald cobblepot is a rude little high school student who can't seem to shake his goth phase. edward nygma doesn't know the definition of personal space. leslie thompkins faces the pinnacle of teenage drama with her questionable taste in boys, and her even more questionable taste in girls. victor zsasz is a moderately acceptable friend. highschool au fic following these kids up and out of high school, and through their evolving/changing relationships. self-indulgent and riddled with positivity.





	1. I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the only thing keeping oswald on his feet is the assumption that he understands everything— it's a false assumption, but at least it makes him feel secure.

High school is fine, normally, as long as you're smart, sociable, or attractive. If you're at least one of those things, there's a place for you, somewhere. 

This is why Oswald is suffering.

 

Well, not exactly.

 

Oswald is smart enough to manipulate the lunch lady into giving him the best nachos, the best slice of pizza, or even a second cup of ice cream— he just doesn't understand Pascal's Triangle or how it has anything to do with solving an equation.

Oswald can talk his way out of just about anything, and the ladies in the library like him because he goes out of his way to be nice to them— it's just that other kids find his eager nature unsettling. Which it really is.

Oswald wears what he thinks are nice clothes, washes his face twice a day, combs his hair and keeps himself put together— none of this works to cover up the big nose poking from his face, or his stained, crooked teeth, and especially not his ghoulishly twisted leg.

 

Let's just say he doesn't come up to standards, but he's doing his best.

The goth look he has going doesn't help his case, his all dark ensemble and his circle lens sunglasses putting a similarly shaped target on his back.

But he really is trying.

 

There are people like Jim Gordon and Harvey Bullock, boys with a smattering of beauty to come alongside their amicability. This comes despite Gordon's short fuse and Bullock's half-ass philosophy. Neither of them are remarkably smart, but they're smart enough to get by.

Ladies like Barbara Keane, Fish Mooney, and Lee Thompkins have it all. They are beautiful, geniuses in their own right, and could talk their way into the Oval Office if they so desired. These women are dangerous, if they want to be, which only makes them that much more appealing. Everyone wants to be around these girls, for one reason or another. 

(Mind, Lee has a tendency to be sweet on Oswald, kind and careful in a world of sharp edges and bitterness. There is no reason for her to be kind, she gains nothing from the exchange, but the two have built a very careful friendship. Occasionally, even, they spend time together.

This is not enough to be Oswald's social saving grace.)

People like Butch Gilzean are social perfects, in a way. Butch can talk to anyone, he can pick up on interests and body language; he can't manipulate too well, but he can talk. And he can listen. Unassuming in his looks and intellect, Butch is a master of the art that is socializing.

Then, near the bottom of his self-organized tower, are people like Oswald. Those who aren't particularly skilled enough in any area, and therefore suffer the consequences of a high school hierarchy.

At least he has his pizza. 

Beneath himself, Oswald puts Victor Zsasz. Not for any reason, he just doesn't like Victor. (In reality, Victor is a man with his own handsomeness about him, and some moderately good skills of persuasion. He does have an odd streak, some creepy scars, and a voice that always sounds threatening. He has more people in his social circle than Oswald, that's certain.

He's no better than Oswald at math, though.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title for the fic itself comes from GINASFS by fall out boy. i wanted each chapter to have a lyric associated to it, but this fic extended past its means. 
> 
> talk to me on tumblr! i'm [ mayor-crumblepot! ](https://mayor-crumblepot.tumblr.com)


	2. II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> oswald and lee have a surprisingly functional friendship, even though oswald can't stand her boyfriend. he'd like to say he tries his best to be civil, but he doesn't. lee doesn't mind.

In the winter, Oswald ducks away from gym class to smoke in the abandoned showers of the girls' locker room. (The pool was drained two years ago, and that's all anyone used the showers for. The tile is covered in ancient soap scum, fading the pastel pink it used to be.) Sometimes Butch joins him, if just for the company.

One day, Lee Thompkins catches him.

"I never took you as the peeping type," Lee's voice always sounds purposeful, like a perfectly prepared speech, and it scares Oswald into dropping his cigarette with a cry. He picks it up before it can go out, but only barely.

"Please," he huffs, taking a calming drag before looking her over, eyeing the terrible uniform she's dressed in, "nice shorts." The girls' gym uniforms are questionably skimpy, short shorts and a shirt that is suspiciously see through in the right light. Some girls suffer through it, and others take a note out of Oswald's book and don't bother to dress out at all.

"Mmm," she deliberates, sitting down beside him against a wall, "I don't really think blue is my color." She takes his cigarette, blowing smoke from her nose that tangles with the perfected ringlets of her hair, almost like momentary highlights.

"You know, it's very rude to take things without asking, Miss Thompkins," Oswald lets her keep the cigarette, stretching his legs out and carefully avoiding a collision between his clunky combat boots and her perfectly tanned and unbelievably soft legs.

"What do you think of Jim Gordon?" Lee's lip gloss has left a glittery film on the filter of the cigarette, reflecting the flickering fluorescent lights from above.

"What do you mean? I suppose he's a bit too handsome for his own good, but we all—"

Lee breaks out in laughter, a snort popping up here and there. "Oz," she giggles, smoke coming from her mouth in tiny bursts, like bubbles underwater, "that's not what I meant. I meant;" she looks over at him, smiling still, "do you think he's a good guy?"

"Why do you think I'm such a good judge of character?" Unbeknownst to Lee, Jim Gordon is one of Oswald's biggest sore spots. Earlier on in his life, Oswald had worked desperately to gain Jim as a friend and became absolutely elated when Jim seemed to return the sentiment. Oswald trusted Jim wholly and fully, allowed him to see into some of the more sensitive parts of his life, only to have it get around to everyone.

Oswald Cobblepot is a momma's boy. Oswald wears his mother's eyeliner, Oswald sews his own clothes, Oswald had headgear as a child because his jaw was so misaligned; everything Oswald had said in confidence became common knowledge.

He isn't really sure if Jim had done it on purpose.

Sometimes, Oswald wonders if there was something at stake, someone requesting something shameful about Oswald in exchange for something Jim wanted. Something he needed.

Since then, Oswald hasn't bothered trying to speak to Jim. It isn't worth it.

"He doesn't like to talk about you, either," Lee mumbles, sighing again, "but I really like him."

Bitterly, Oswald lights himself another cigarette, biting his black nails between drags, "You two would be just perfect together. Maybe he'd even let you wear his letterman."

"I have my own letterman. I don't need his."

This time, Oswald is the one who laughs until he snorts. He's thankful to know Lee Thompkins. He's thankful to be friends with her.

"You are an impressive young lady, Lee," the two of them share silence for a while longer, until Lee warns him to leave before people start filing in to change before their next class. 

He stumbles out just in time to join the boys as they head back into the locker room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i really like lee. she's so fun, she's a badass, and i love her. she and oswald as a duo in terms of friendship just comes so easily in my opinion. 
> 
> talk to me on tumblr! i'm [ mayor-crumblepot! ](https://mayor-crumblepot.tumblr.com)


	3. III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i've heard it said that lunchtime is the most telling when it comes to the personalities of students. i'm not sure what that can say for edward nygma, who sneaks up on people consistently.

In the lunchroom, there are no signs, no directions, and this leaves people like Oswald completely lost in a sea of options.

He doesn't really have a place. And that's fine, for him, at least.

Outside, in the courtyard, there's a half wall that Oswald has found comfortable. It's the perfect height for him, and it keeps him away from other people.

Today, Butch sits on the ground in front of the wall, resting against it.

"Why are you so fixated on this?" Butch waves his hand toward Oswald's leg, which is swinging beside him. All he can smell is dirt and leather.

"On what?"

"Jim Gordon." around the sandwich in his mouth, Butch is exhausted to have to say the name one more time.

"He and Lee are an item, now." Oswald's voice is impartial, but he's practiced that sound for the most of his life.

"So what?" Butch is just as smart as the next kid, but sometimes, Oswald works on another frequency. Everything he does, everyone he knows; it all comes with some sort of benefit. Nothing is without purpose. That's something that Butch struggles with, constantly led by his own emotions, chiefly mercy.

 _"So,"_ from the other end of the wall, a voice snakes its way into the conversation, "he's worried Jim will spoil Lee's image of him. They're friends." Of every single human being that Oswald has had to interact with, Edward Nygma eludes him the most. Ed is skinny, frail, and younger than everyone else in the grade.

Ed wears the same three sweaters over an assortment of button up shirts and khaki pants. Everything is so perfectly pleated and situated, it's like he has something to hide. He's too put together. 

Some days he'll come to school with a shirt untucked, the coif of his hair falling into his face; there's a rumor that he talks to himself.

If there's a person to avoid, be it for comfort or for social success, it's Ed.

"You and Lee," Butch laughs, raucously, looking up at Oswald to realize it isn't a joke, "no way. No way."

"She's kind," Oswald explains, shrugging. "And she's not as much of a brute as you, Butch." there's a bitterness in his voice, but Oswald laughs anyway. Butch laughs, too.

"You must be jealous," Ed is closer now, jittery like a feral cat.

"And who am I jealous of, Ed?" Oswald's voice is full of venom, his dark lined eyes squinting.

Ed expertly perches himself on the wall, leaning closer to Oswald. Personal space be damned. From beneath Oswald's legs, Butch stiffens; he's the muscle that keeps Oswald alive half of the time. With his bad leg and his miserably physical health, there's no way Oswald can successfully fight for himself. 

Butch keeps Oswald alive, and Oswald brings Butch the leftovers from dinner at home. Everyone is happy. 

"You," Oswald can feel Ed's breath on his face, so he leans back quickly, "don't think they should be together. Why is that? You must have an interest in one of them."

"Lee's his friend, didn't we already establish—" Butch gets cut off by Ed, voice annoying and imposing.

"More than that. Opposites attract, don't they,  _Oz?"_ to hear the nickname Lee has adopted for him roll off of Ed's tongue like an accusation makes Oswald's face read discomfort. 

"If I wanted to have sex with Lee fucking Thompkins, don't you think I would have tried already?" Oswald hates being accused, especially of something so asinine. 

"She's a pitying person, she probably would have agreed." Ed pushes, further and further. "Had you asked nicely."

"Lee doesn't do pity sex. And I'm not exactly  _interested._ " 

A silence lingers between the three, the sound of wind coming and going. Oswald is on the defensive, good leg brought up in front of himself, picking at the plastic on the end of his shoelace. 

"So it's  _Jim,_ " Ed finally says, eyes alight.

"Hey, man, come on," Butch makes an honest attempt to dissuade Ed from pressing further. Of course, it doesn't work.

"Oh, I was  _right_ ," his hands are tight on his legs, gripping with excitement and fear, "opposites really  _do_ attract. Really, the golden boy?" 

At that, Oswald and Butch both laugh.

"Jim Gordon is an idiot." Oswald says, sticking his crooked nose in the air, "He doesn't treat his friends well, either. I have no business with him," he can feel Butch eyeing him, "not anymore."

"You're a very proud person, aren't you?" Ed asks, signature almost-smile building on his face.

"Proud don't even cover it," Butch sighs, handing a brownie up to Oswald. With a fair amount of dignity intact, Oswald tears open the wrapper and finishes it just before class starts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> butch holds a soft spot in my heart, and i'm not entirely sure why. he just... fits somewhere very special. 
> 
> talk to me on tumblr! i'm [ mayor-crumblepot! ](https://mayor-crumblepot.tumblr.com)


	4. IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ed and oswald get close because butch is busy doing band things. sometimes, you make friends in the absence of their friends. ed comes to worry about his newfound friend very quickly, as he tends to come to most of his conclusions about things.

Ed starts spending time with Oswald and Butch at lunch. And really, whenever he can. Victor starts coming around more, too, but Oswald likes to pretend he doesn't exist. He doesn't really talk much, anyway.

Despite the frigid breeze that has started to cut through the courtyard, Oswald is still very adamant on sitting outside. When Ed walks up on the wall from his physics class, he finds Oswald huddled on the ground, sitting beside Victor Zsasz in silence. Looking closer, Ed realizes Victor is wearing a beanie over his shaved head and is fast asleep. 

"Where's Butch?" Ed asks, sitting down with his lunch bag on a little patch of dead grass.

"Band performance. He won't be back until  _Wednesday,_ " Oswald has never sounded more distraught over someone's absence. When he unfurls his small body, Ed gets a better understanding of why. Oh this Friday, Oswald already looks like he's been through hell and back. Obviously, this means next to nothing to Victor, who has made himself a makeshift bed with his own backpack and coat. 

"You look like garbage."

"Thank you, Ed. You've given me so much insight." Oswald pops the tab on a can he's been vaguely avoiding.

"Is  _that_ your lunch?"

"Do you have a problem with lemon-lime soda?"

"No, just—" Ed looks down at his leftover spaghetti and two slices of cheese pizza; his bottle of crystal Pepsi looks back at him, "The poor have it, the rich need it; if you eat it you will die." Oswald gives him a long-suffering look and punctuates himself with a sip of soda, "Nothing. It's nothing. You should eat _not_ nothing." after some deliberation, Ed pushes the pizza to Oswald.

Eventually, Oswald eats it. He doesn't eat much of it, almost like he expects to have ti taken back from him. 

"You gonna eat that?" Victor's voice is still addled with sleep, and it's one of the first times Ed has even heard him talk. He sounds old. 

"Fuck off, Victor," Oswald waves the last quarter of a slice at Victor, who takes it and bites into it without any hesitation. When he finishes with it, he goes right back to sleep.  

Ed has no idea how Victor does that, the whole sleeping in public. 

Lunch goes on, the day goes on, Ed goes home and doesn't think about anything for the whole weekend. He experiences peaceful nothingness. 

Come lunch on Monday, Oswald has an awful bruise blooming on his face. His nose is bleeding, and Ed thinks that he's wearing the same shirt he was on Friday. He's missing his coat. 

"What happened?" Ed tries not to sound concerned; Oswald isn't his friend. Oswald puts up with him, even when he talks to himself, even when he tells riddles, even when he dumps stupid information into conversations. It's just putting up with, nothing else.

"I am not a popular man," Oswald supplies, blood spraying from his lips when he speaks. It splatters onto Ed's glasses and sweater, leaving Oswald embarrassed. "Forgive me."

"Sit," Ed finally says, taking his glasses off and wiping them clean. Oswald sits on the wall, making himself nearly on eye level with Ed. They spend their lunchtime alone in the cold, Ed fixing what he can with hand sanitizer and tissues. He presses to the cool pack from his lunch bag onto the bruise that's forming, seeming unmoved and untroubled by the whole thing.

"You're good at this," Oswald comments, letting Ed move his head around.

"I'm less popular than you are."

" _That's_ debatable."

Ed smiles, then dissolves into a small laugh. "Right."

By the time he's done fixing Oswald's face, Ed does not feel inclined to eat anything. He offers up his crystal Pepsi, which Oswald drinks with some confusions and apprehension. 

"You like this stuff?"

"It's clear. That's neat." Ed says this with the utmost conviction, and that makes Oswald laugh, his nose crinkling. 

To check the time, Ed takes out his phone, unlocking it and glaring at the home screen. 

Oswald plucks the object from Ed's large hand, typing with one hand and holding the cool pack to his face with the other.

"Just in case," Oswald says. Ed doesn't understand, but he nods dumbly. He has Oswald's number.

For the first time in the history of their interactions, Ed is silent because he doesn't have anything intelligent to say. "Okay."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ed drinks crystal pepsi what do you want from me  
> a weird kid needs a weird drink to enjoy  
> it's pretentious and dumb but hey. it's there. 
> 
> next chapter is super slow but lots of.............. car. ed drives.
> 
> talk to me on tumblr! i'm [ mayor-crumblepot! ](https://mayor-crumblepot.tumblr.com)


	5. V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> oswald and ed bond on a drive, or something. there's something touching about watching two people who like each other go out into the unknown together in the privacy of a vehicle.

Later on in the week, when Ed walks to the parking lot, keys in hand, he realizes there's someone sitting on the hood of his Nissan. It's Oswald, upon further investigation. (Of course, it's Oswald. Who else could it be?)

Ed walks up alongside the car, glancing warily at Oswald. Since Butch has been back, the bruises on Oswald's face have started fading, but he still looks pitiful.

"May I help you?" Ed chirps, swinging his messenger bag onto his back as he leans forward to get a better look, "Oswald?" It's clear that he's been there a while, his pose perfected and practiced; he's trying very hard to look cool. He's taken the show off of the foot on his bad leg, a singular Doc Marten sitting on the hood beside him and his backpack.

"Have you ever driven past the highway?"

"No. Why would I?"

"Why wouldn't you?"

Ed sighs quietly, leans his hip on the car more solidly. "Have  _you_?" 

"I don't drive." After a short silence, "My mother doesn't either."

"You've only been as far as the bus lines?"

Oswald doesn't say anything, just glares in the general direction of the highway ramp. The sound of cars speeding by on the interstate just a few miles further lingers through to the nearly empty parking lot, fading in and out like cicada screams.

Until this moment, Ed really hasn't given Oswald's personal life much thought. Ed has always been upper middle class, his parents are married and at one point, his family had a maid. They even had a dog, when he was younger, and he was allowed to get a goldfish that lived in his room when he was eleven.

To Ed, that's what life is. That's how it goes. He just assumes everyone has similar experiences because he doesn't know enough about people to think otherwise. (Besides, there's so much more to think about. The beauty of human social drama is too much for Ed to ignore, so the nuances of home life go unnoticed by him. People stop existing when the final bell at school rings for the day.)

But now, in this moment, he realizes a handful of things. It all comes tumbling together, a barrel of awareness and disconcertion. Oswald hasn't procured a new coat since he lost the last one, Ed has never seen his mother at school functions, he never mentions his father, occasionally Oswald will procure school lunch at no cost and when it comes to the leg; Ed has a sneaking suspicion that the obstacle in fixing it wasn't the fragility of Oswald's body, but rather, the cost to do so.

At this point in their relationship, Ed knows better than to try and be charitable. If there's anything Oswald hates, it's pity.

"Take a ride with me?" Ed finally asks, disengaging himself from the car, "It looks like it may rain." It sounds like a further extended invitation, the promise of wet streets and an ambiance that matches Oswald's attitude well.

"You don't have a  _curfew_?" Oswald teases, but he's already pushing himself up off of the hood awkwardly, his bones objecting. Ed offers a hand out to help, and is surprised when it's accepted.

"No, no curfew. My parents are out of town," and while this is by no means an invitation to do something wild, it makes Oswald's eyes light up as he finally finds his feet on the ground. He's inches away from Ed, unbearably close, and neither know what to do with the space between them.

Ed goes for the shoe Oswald left on the hood.

Their bags and Oswald's shoes go in the back seat, and Ed watches Oswald find a comfortable sitting arrangement. He ends up with one leg folded beneath himself, seatbelt awkwardly wrapped around his midsection, just enough to be legal.

"I have to stop at the pharmacy," Ed says, backing out of his parking spot and pulling out onto the road, "but by the time we're done the traffic should be better." His traditional tight smile comes across his face, breaking to show wide teeth. Oswald nods and finds a radio station he likes.

By the time they're at the pharmacy, the rain is coming down. Ed helps Oswald step swiftly from the car onto dry land. His socks make tiny imprints on the carpeted floor of the pharmacy, a childish feature on his otherwise aggressive ensemble.

Unless there's an occasion, Oswald is consistently all blacks and purples and occasional greens. He's short, so he has to cuff up his jeans, and every shirt he owns sits a little long on his small torso. He's procured a denim vest at some point, but has yet to put any patches on it.

The woman behind the counter knows Ed, playfully chastises him like a mother. "You should have run out of these a few days ago," she comes from behind an aisle of prescriptions, shaking a bag with a bottle inside, 'Nygma' stamped across the front in all capital letters. "Do you want to extend your next fill to a 90-day?"

"No, thanks," he smiles cordially, signs his name on the papers necessary, then buys a small bag of gummy candies on impulse. 

He finds Oswald looking intently at the assortment of canes available, apprehensively testing them out. The options are minimal, three or four different designs on low-quality metal, adjustable canes. Oswald wobbles as he leans on them, frowning. 

"You'd look better with a wood one. With one of those—" Ed's brain searches for a word, fingers fanning out before him, "fancy, metal handles." 

"You're right," Oswald laughs, puts the cane back on the display rack, and follows Ed back out into the rain. Ed helps him back into the car again, unduly chivalrous. 

Within the confines of the vehicle, Ed unpacks his medication. 

The paper bag goes in the back seat, thrown haphazardly where it comes to lie with many more of its own kind. The bottle goes in the cup holder, only after Ed scans the label, then takes three with some water he finds on the floor of his car.

He offers Oswald the gummy candies, watches with almost rapt attention as he picks out the blue ones for himself. 

"Have you ever ridden along the bay?" Ed asks, using a cherry candy to ward off the taste of pills.

"No," Oswald gives him a wary, sideways glance, "why?"

"We can take that to the highway." 

And with that, Ed is driving. He's been attentive to the layout of maps since he was a child, the map of Gotham roads is practically committed to memory. What comes outside of Gotham is murky territory, but that's what cell phone maps are for. 

They reach the bay wall as the rain reaches its peak, coming down with such force that the sunroof on Ed's car seems like it may burst.

"The water's so..." Oswald stops and fully stares, looking past Ed's face to get a good view of the bay in all of its lacking splendor, "dirty. Is it always this gross?"

"Oh, definitely," Ed laughs, picking up a little speed on the almost empty road. Nobody drives along the bay wall, the smell of fish and death permeate the cabin; there are myths of ghosts that haunt the bay itself, and killers who wander the edge for foolish passerby.

Oswald turns up the radio and continues to watch the bay past Ed's features, glaring at the city on the other side. He wonders, absently, if the world is different over there. If the city is as dangerous and corrupt as Gotham is, or if it's an entirely different animal, with good schools and children who win science fairs.

When the bay disappears and the Gotham city limits sign is long gone, Oswald unfastens his seatbelt and makes himself more comfortable in the passenger seat. 

He leans over the console and searches the back seat until he finds one of Ed's sweaters, larger than necessary for Ed himself, especially for Oswald. 

"Is this clean?" he asks, holding it in front of himself as if it may be contaminated.

"Yes," this response comes after much deep thought, many glances toward the offending garment.

Eventually, Oswald sheds his vest in favor of pulling the sweater over his head. Ed feels something in his chest swell, but he isn't too sure what it is. 

The green fabric of the sweater looks out of place on top of Oswald's all black fashion, but the color somehow makes his eyes seem brighter. From his place curled up in the passenger seat, leaned against the door, staring at Ed, Oswald starts to talk. He holds Ed's bottle of pills in his hands, rolling it over and over, slow rattling beneath the music on the radio.

"When I was small, very small," Oswald draws the sounds out, as if giving Ed time to imagine it. It's not difficult, Oswald is small enough as it is. "I was on the swim team. Could you believe that? I was good, too." he laughs, shakes the bottle a little. "I can't swim anymore, not with the leg. At least, not well." Oswald looks out, back in the direction of the bay, "I'm sure I could if I had to."

"I can't imagine you swimming."

"Really?" Oswald is ready to be accusatory, stiffening slightly. "Why's that?" 

"Swim turnks don't exactly fit your  _look_." Ed grins, Oswald laughs and laughs, dissolving into nearly-soundless giggles. 

"My mother bought my a pair of bright purple trunks, the tight ones." Oswald runs a hand through his hair, ruffles it in the back like a nervous habit, "It looked awful. She thought I looked handsome, though."

"It can't be as bad as the suit my mother put me in for my aunt's wedding. I'll find you a picture sometime," Ed smiles over, giant teeth bared for a moment, sincere and honest.

A series of rest stops appear on the side of the road, and Oswald enthusiastically points to what looks like a convenience store. "Can we stop?" 

Ed doesn't answer, only pulls into the empty parking lot under momentarily calm skies. He parks easily, no other cars to look out for, and follows Oswald inside. 

Oswald buys cigarettes, two packs, because he says the price "is a steal." Ed buys a soda and isn't completely sure why. He feels compelled. 

Outside, Oswald waits by Ed's car, requesting entry to the back seat. He rifles through his bag, finally coming across his lighter. On his way over to throw away his trash, Oswald lights himself a cigarette and comes back to perch on the trunk of Ed's car. It's a grueling effort, not half as graceful as Oswald had probably meant it to be, but Ed is still enamored with the image. 

With one hand holding his twisted knee and the other holding the cigarette to his mouth, Oswald is an image Ed never thought he'd be able to enjoy. And Ed feels it all coming on, an overwhelming desire for every moment to be like this one. The voice in the back of his head is yelling, but he's too focused on Oswald to really hear it.

"I didn't want to smoke in your car," Oswald sheepishly explains, tapping ash toward the pavement.

"You can," Ed says, leaning up against the back end of his car, "it's fine." When he goes to look up at Oswald, the boy is staring out at the road, focused on something very far away, a fixed point. There's some kind of sickening elegance in the way his hair is fluffed in the back, purposelessly spiky. In Ed's sweater, he looks softer, less viperous and vengeful. 

He's pretty.

And from every single exchange Ed has seen between Oswald and Butch, between Oswald and Victor, between Oswald and practically anyone; he knows how little Oswald likes to be described that way. He doesn't believe it.

Oswald flicks what remains of his cigarette into the parking lot gravel. It doesn't travel far, falling pitifully into a shallow puddle. What fire remained within it fizzles out with a final stream of smoke, "Damn."

"I come out at night without being called, but I am lost in the day without being stolen. What am I?" the riddle spills from Ed's lips, faster than he can tell himself to just  _shut up, don't ruin this_. In the back of his mind, the voice is screaming.

"A star," Oswald pulls Ed out of his thoughts, pulls him back into the world gracelessly, "right?"

"Right," Ed beams, somehow very overwhelmed, "there's— there's a good place to look, on the way back into town." He gestures vaguely up toward the sky;  _look_. Oswald smiles and nods appreciatively, sliding off of the back of the car with little incident. The oncoming cold of the night makes his leg ache, but he tries to ignore it. 

* * *

 

"You mean you've never had a cigarette before?" Oswald is back to his horribly twisted position in the passenger seat, arms folded around his middle. "Not even a little?" When Ed gives an apathetic shrug, Oswald smirks. "But you're so..." he searches for the proper word, fidgeting with the pack in his hand, "anxious." 

"I'm not anxious," Ed can't put too much conviction into the statement, but he really does try. There's just so much to be concerned about in the world.

"Ed," Oswald speaks knowingly, giving Ed an almost motherly expression, "if you're not anxious, I'm not bad at math."

"I'm sure you're not that bad at math," Ed concedes, cheeks flushed. He turns on his brights, more comfortably coasting along the road.

"I'm pretty fucking bad." Oswald flips the lid of his pack repeatedly, poking at the exposed end of the cigarette he flipped for luck. He hits the pack against the heel of his hand five times, stops short. "You can try one later, if you want."

"I wouldn't want to take from you, or anything—"

"Ed, I'm offering."

"If you're sure," Ed makes a point not to look at Oswald for a long moment, leaning forward toward the windshield, seeking out a turn that he finally finds, "I'm interested."

After some driving through fearfully dark territory, Ed comes upon a clearing and a cliff. Gotham is still far away, but the moon and dim road lamps manage to give of just enough light. Despite the light from Gotham and the terrible smog that emerges from the filthy city, stars peek through the clouds, the sky having cleared after the storm.

They sit on the hood of Ed's car, cross legged and comfortable, for the most part. Ed leans his soda against the windshield, as if it were meant to be looking at the stars as well.

The glow from Oswald's lighter casts him spookily, looking more like a ghost than a living being. He only seems alive again when he pushes smoke out of his lungs, a cloud going out toward the city.

Oswald offers the cigarette toward Ed, not even looking at him as he does so. He's too engaged with the sky, with the city that looks so much more beautiful from far away. He only looks back when Ed chokes on an inhale, coming up for air with red cheeks.

"Are you alright?" Oswald offers him his soda, even goes so far as to open the bottle for him. Ed drinks gratefully, finally nodding. "Let's try something easier." despite speaking, Oswald doesn't start moving until Ed acknowledges him with a nod.

Oswald fixes his positioning, scooting closer to Ed, readjusting the sleeves of his borrowed sweater to keep the ashes from falling onto it.

"Don't bump me with your big, dorky glasses." Oswald bites, giving Ed a smile before taking a long drag, smoke spilling slowly from the corners of his mouth. He edges closer before tapping the side of Ed's jaw, voice strained, "Open your mouth. Breathe in."

"What—" Oswald shotguns the smoke into Ed's mouth, dangerously close to him. Ed doesn't choke this time, but he is completely lost for words. He feels a little dizzy and he loves it.

"You okay?" Ed nods. Oswald is still so close, drawing another drag in for himself. "Want another?" Ed nods again, which makes Oswald laugh.

At some point, Ed should be able to manage to take drags for himself, should be able to hold the cigarette in his hand and manage not to choke. Regardless, he keeps asking to have the smoke shotgunned into him, and Oswald keeps agreeing.

They don't talk about it, they don't think about it. Ed drives Oswald home, parks in front of the dilapidated apartment building and doesn't make any comments. Oswald wiggles around, struggling to get his shoes on in the confined space. He holds his backpack to his chest as he gets out of the car, leaning in to thank Ed.

"I never was, but always will be. No one ever saw me, but everyone knows I exist. I'm always coming, but never arrive. What am I?" Ed speaks first, interrupting Oswald's train of thought.

"What?"

"Do you give up?" Ed is smiling, absolutely beaming. It's contagious, making Oswald laugh.

"Yes."

"Tomorrow. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Ah," Oswald smiles, sincere and warm, "I'll see you tomorrow, Ed." Oswald shuts the door, waves through the open window.

"Goodnight, Oswald," Ed waves back, waiting until Oswald is all the way insisde the building to start his car back up. He pulls away into the night and struggles to sleep once he gets home. 

Oswald still has his sweater.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i decided ed can drive because honestly, imagine him driving a shitty little car when he first learns. how darling. he's a little too tall for the seat so his knees hit the steering column a little; he listens to weird NPR type shows on the radio w the occasional hip hop station or smth. i imagine he has something like a 1999 nissan maxima se. only bc its ugly and the interior looked like shit. the steering wheel commonly had a design that kinda looks like the padded elbows on tweed jackets. also it HAD to have a sunroof.
> 
> also: i have no knowledge of bays. i know that here, we have a seawall. a wall that lines up with the beach and by extension, the sea. so i decided they have those for bays, too. i dont care. it's an image. 
> 
> ultimately, i just decided that my ed has did. i wanted something concrete and i figured that in a universe where things are approached responsibly and healthily, he deserved Something with a name. i took liberties but it's not. that important in the scope of this fic, tbh.
> 
> talk to me on tumblr! i'm [ mayor-crumblepot! ](https://mayor-crumblepot.tumblr.com)


	6. VI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a handful of bonding experiences, scattered and weird. jumping around for the sake of momentum.

"Tell me about him," Oswald says, one day, perched on the hood of Ed's car, like usual.

"Who?"

"The  _other_ you." Without a cigarette to hold, Oswald's hands fidget for something to do. He settles on fiddling with the laces of his shoes.

"Oh," Ed shrugs, pretends to act like the request doesn't phase him, "there's not much to tell."

"You know that's not true," Oswald chastises, recalling every single time he caught Ed talking to himself, jerking his head to the right to speak in hushed tones, as if someone were standing right beside him.

"He's just... me." As soon as the statement leaves his mouth, Ed's whole face scrunches up, averse to a noise only he can hear. "He doesn't think as much, I guess, he just  _does_."

"A man of action, then," Oswald struggles to imagine an Ed who acts before he thinks; it just seems so unlike the boy he's come to know. 

"I suppose," Ed shrugs gain, eyes focused on a faded spot in the metal of his car. 

"Does he look like you?" A silence passes before Oswald restates his question, "Or does he part your hair differently, or something?"

Ed thinks, then moves to take his glasses off. He scrubs a hand over his face, rubs his eyes and the bags forming beneath them. "He doesn't like my glasses," he looks up at Oswald, somehow completely different without the frame of plastic around his eyes. It almost makes Oswald anxious.

"You look so much more dangerous without them," he comments, finally pulling a cigarette out of his bag and lighting it, "which is a shame. Your power is in your unassuming nature."

The comment lingers in the air. Ed is unsure as to if he's just warm under the sun, or if he's blushing at the sideways compliment.

He takes the cigarette from Oswald's hand and takes a slow drag, holds the smoke in his mouth and feels it tingle against his throat and his tongue. It grounds him, helps him tune out the voice so similar to his own, screaming in the back of his head.

"I don't think you'd like him," Ed finally says, letting the smoke fall from his mouth and ascend slowly, "he's a real asshole." 

"Says you," Oswald nudges Ed's shoulder with his own fondly, smiling over at him before readjusting.

Ed feels some of the noise in his head quiet down. He can think more clearly, he can focus on the way it feels to be casually touched, someone just appreciating contact. Ed likes it, and initiates a nudge of his own.

He and Oswald end up sitting with their shoulders pressed together, comfortably leaning on one another until Ed has to drive Oswald home.

* * *

Oswald meets Ed at lunch one day with blood pouring from his nose and lip. On his forehead, three lines stacked on top of each other, bleeding scrapes.  _Was he slammed into a locker door?_

"I should have stayed home," Oswald says, matter of factly. The blood in his nose makes his voice that much more nasally, worsened by the fingers he has pinching the bridge, "This is  _not_ a good day for me." 

"You need to go home." Ed cringes are more blood drips onto Oswald's shirt, staining the material.

All Oswald does is sniffle, sucking blood back into his throat with obvious disgust. His eyes flutter shut as blood drips off of his brow.

"Come on." This is the first time Ed skips school in any capacity. He heaves his bag onto his shoulder, then does the same with Oswald's. Ed wipes the blood from Oswald's face with his sleeve, avoiding wounds as best he can, and gestures for the boy to follow him.

When that seems to be too difficult of a task, Ed takes Oswald's free hand and holds tight. He walks Oswald to the parking lot, helps him into the passenger's seat, and drives toward Oswald's house with a fierce grip on the steering wheel. 

"What happened?" Ed glances to his right at a stoplight, assessing the damage.

"Would you believe that I walked into it?"

"No."

"A few people had a grudge, I suppose. I don't think they intended for me to hit the locker this hard. It happens." Oswald doesn't seem all that distraught, though it seems that as adrenaline wears off, pain is coming through. Ed wipes away more blood before he drives on.

When they reach Oswald's complex, Ed turns the car off without a second thought.

"You could probably make it back to school in time for—" Oswald finds himself cut off by Ed opening the passenger door, heaving him upright and toward the entrance. "You're coming in?"

"You aren't exactly in the best of shape," Ed quips, handing Oswald his bag from the back seat.

Slowly, Oswald punches his code into the main gate, then has Ed follow him up to a third floor door. "Mother was sewing last night," Oswald says, working the key through a series of locks on the door, "forgive the state of the living room."

In the grand scheme of things, Ed couldn't give a damn about the living room. Even as he walks in to see eccentric fabrics and sewing patterns about the room, he doesn't care. (It isn't even all that much of a mess.)

Ed holds Oswald by the chin as he wipes blood from cuts and avoids bruises. They sit cross legged on Oswald's bed, surrounded by old books and small paintings. Every photo in the house is of Oswald and his mother, similing and laughing side by side. The resemblance is painfully obvious.

It takes over an hour, with Ed being so meticulous and easily distracted by many of the running thoughts in his mind. He asks about the books about birds, he asks about the photographs, he asks about the collection of clocks on the walls. 

By the time they find a moment of quiet, eyes meeting with Ed's hand still wrapped around Oswald's chin, the locks on the doors are clicking.

"Oswald?" His mother's voice carries through the apartment, lilting and halting.

"Mother!" Oswald is up as fast as his fragile leg can let him be, and Ed hovers behind awkwardly. "I'm home a bit early today, I—" 

"Goodness! Your face!" Still dressed in her cleaning apron, Oswald's mother is doting to him immediately. She babbles between English and her native tongue, only some of the words making sense to Oswald. It takes her five whole minutes to realize Ed is even standing in her living room.

"Mother," Oswald leads, clearing his throat, "this is Ed. He brought me home."

"It's nice to meet you, Mrs. Cobblepot," Ed smiles like the proper young man he is, polite and refined and oh, so measured. If it weren't for the blood smeared on his sweater and fingertips, he would be the perfect image of prestige. 

"Edward," she takes a hand he wasn't exactly offering into her own, moving close, "Oswald talks of you very highly, you know." All Ed can do is smile, unsure as to what kind of response she's looking for. "You took care of him?"

"Of course," Ed uses his left hand to push his glasses up his nose, "of course I did." 

"You're a good boy," she pats his cheek, smiling up at him in a way that Ed clearly sees as purely Oswald. Strong genes. "My little Cobblepot deserves the best," and she walks away with that, stopping to kiss Oswald on the cheek before going off to her bedroom. 

"Your mother is very nice," Ed beams, laughing, "you look just like her." 

Oswald's face is on fire, and he wishes some part of his skin would just start bleeding again because this moment is too much for him. "She's great," he finally says, smiling through a heavy blush, "hurry. Before she tries to get you to stay for dinner."

* * *

Gertrud waves from a window as Ed picks Oswald up one night, late in the evening. Night driving has become their usual escapade; soft radio music and a peaceful drive for a few hours.

"You look tense," Oswald's face is still healing, forehead scabbed over painfully, "is something wrong?" 

"Lots of noise." Ed attempts to shrug, to seem apathetic, but he fails to meet the mark. 

"What's he saying?" Oswald leans onto the console, one hand settled over Ed's elbow. "Does he not like my haircut?" Ed shivers. 

"He likes the haircut. I do, too." 

"I'm flattered," Oswald laughs, contagious and sweet, which makes Ed laugh, too.

"He thinks I'm a coward," Ed mumbles, grips the steering wheel a little tighter, takes a left turn down a long street, "in not so many words." 

"Why? Because you still haven't taken me to your house, yet?" 

Ed pauses, thinks slowly for one of the first times in his life. "Among other things."

"Prove him wrong, then." Oswald is feigning apathy, looking out of a rolled down window. "Don't let him tell you what you are. He's still you, you know." The statement hangs heavy over Ed's head. It isn't so simple, he knows that, but it's endearing to him that Oswald thinks he's capable. 

"I guess you're right."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know most times that people write oswald to get into fights and be _bullied_ it's got something to do with his sexuality or whatever. personally, i think he'd just have a fucking mouth on him. i don't think he'd know when to stop being a smart ass, and when to stop pushing. 
> 
> most times, once you've pissed someone off enough, they'll take any part of you and use it as an insult, no matter how they feel about it. but that's an afterthought. 
> 
> anyway, i'm projecting on oswald. when i first started using lockers, in middle school, i accidentally opened my locker door _far_ too roughly, and slammed it right into my face. ended up with three nasty forehead scrapes. (nobody pushed me into the locker, though. i suppose i'm half projecting) it was such a stupid thing to have done, but now i can look back and laugh about it. 
> 
> talk to me on tumblr! i'm [ mayor-crumblepot! ](https://mayor-crumblepot.tumblr.com)


	7. VII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prom and some ruminations on feelings and what they mean. ed and oswald fit together nicely, they find.

Ed, Oswald, Victor, and Butch all get prepared for prom at Ed's house.

For the four of them, this consists of very little. Oswald fields three phone calls from his mother, Victor considers drawing on eyebrows, and Butch avoids wearing his vest at all times. Ed's mother brings up little sandwiches under the pretense that "you'll probably forget to eat until late," and discreetly presses a one-hundred dollar bill into Ed's hand. "For the after party," she explains, with a wink.

Nothing of the sort has been planned, but Ed appreciates the gesture. His mother is overjoyed to see him with friends, with anyone at all, and she fosters it with delicious food and leniency. His father is more soft spoken on the matter, but seems proud nonetheless.

Victor practically swallows several sandwiches whole before slowing down. Typical.

As they move to pile into Ed's car, his mother demands photographs. She takes far too many, pictures of them smiling for the camera and some more candid. There's one where everyone is blinded by sunlight glinting off a lapel on Victor's suit, one where Butch has his head thrown back in a heavy laugh while Oswald smirks proudly. There's one where Ed is fixing Oswald's tie carefully, the both of them bashfully avoiding eye contact.

Behind them, Victor and Butch are in a heated debate over who has to sit behind the driver's seat.  

The prom itself is everything they had expected it to be. Vaguely campy but with the best intentions, dripping with decor meant to cause nostalgia when remembered years later. Victor is a snapchat fiend, taking picture after picture, videos bearing a certain Blair Witch flair to them, shaky and unclear.

"Look," to be heard over the music, Oswald has to press himself directly to Ed's side, speaking right into his ear, "Butch and Tabitha." The two are begrudgingly dancing, sweet in their own right. It slowly becomes apparent that Tabitha, in her elegant black, sparkling dress, is leading. Everyone gets a good laugh out of that. That's Tabitha, though.

 

Lee Thompkins and Jim Gordon win prom royalty. Of course, they do. Why wouldn't they?

While Jim seems as though he expected the title, Lee is overflowing with genuine excitement and thanks. Oswald pretends that he didn't vote for her, that he didn't vote at all, but he did. He snuck a vote in at the last second, well aware someone as beautiful as Lee had it in the bag already. It's the principle of the vote that counts. 

Oswald cheers raucously and obnoxiously, smirking at Lee from the corner of her vision. When she comes stumbling off the stage, Oswald is the first person she hugs. 

She's so much taller than he is, so slim and elegant in comparison to his more disorganized existence. To hug him properly her back has to hunch slightly, her cheek pressed against his. 

"It really wasn't a contest," Oswald says, smiling up at her as she towers over him in high heels, "you were sure to win." 

"Quiet, you," Lee's smile is so bright, Oswald thinks he may go blind.

"Congratulations," Ed's voice is sincere from behind Oswald, smile audible. Lee hugs him too, thanks him, and runs off to be beautiful elsewhere. When she leaves, the area seems slightly dimmer without her presence. "She's something else, isn't she?" Ed laughs, nudging Oswald's shoulder. 

"She really, really is." Once again, Oswald is deeply thankful to be Lee's friend. She brings a healing, cleansing air with her wherever she goes. Oswald knows she'll go on to do amazing things. He just knows it. 

Eventually, Victor slips away. He texts Oswald not to wait up, he has something to do. Oswald only hopes it isn't something dangerous, he doesn't want to have to deal with helping Victor again.

Tabitha slowly grows sweet on Butch, the girl sandwiched between Barbara Kean and Butch Gilzean. Oswald laughs for a solid minute when Ed makes a joke about their names rhyming. He disappears with them as the night goes on.

"I need a cigarette," Oswald says at the third slow song, moving quickly out into the parking lot. Ed follows closely, fidgety. 

"We could just leave," Ed offers, watching exhausted couples leave after a night of dancing, "if you want?" 

"What? No, no," Oswald's hand shakes around his cigarette, finding peace after a few drags, "I wouldn't want to spoil the prom experience." 

"I think we experienced it all," Ed laughs, cautious, "the photo booth, the shamefully mediocre chocolate fountain, the music. We could just drive around; I'd rather do that." 

In the car, Ed backs out with a hand on the back of Oswald's seat, pressing himself close. "Get a little overwhelmed back there?" Oswald asks, head tilted.

"I'm not too good with people." Ed looks both ways and decides to pull out toward the empty freeway.

"You do pretty alright with me." Oswald's voice is playful, kind like the hand he has on Ed's arm.

"Well," Ed speaks quickly, getting into the far left lane, gaining speed, "you're different. It's easier with you." 

Oswald stiffens as his hand lingers over the radio dial. The statement goes right through him, like a ghost or a knife or a bullet; he isn't sure. He just knows that it's one of the kindest things he's ever had someone say to him. Of course, it would come from Ed.

After sitting still for a while, Oswald eventually turns the radio up. The music makes the car shiver only slightly, blows out of the windows into the cool, evening air. He edges himself over in his seat, leans into the console, and settles his head on Ed's shoulder. 

* * *

"Wake up, sleepyhead." Ed chirps, large hand practically caressing Oswald's face. "You can stay here tonight. My parents are on call, so we may have to find something to eat ourselves." Ed talks idly as he pulls himself out of the car, walking around to help Oswald.

The awkward position and long drive did a number on Oswald's hip and back, making him slow to move. Ed's arm snakes around Oswald's waist and helps him inside, to the kitchen.

"You don't need to trouble yourself." Oswald tries to reason as Ed fishes pain medicine from the cabinet; all to no avail.

"I don't want you to be hurting," he says plainly, giving two pills and water to Oswald, before turning back to the fridge. A note is stuck dead center, perfect handwriting running across it.

'Eddie—  
Welcome home! I hope you had fun!  
There's plenty to cook in the pantry, if you're hungry. Don't worry about the dishes, the maid should be coming in the morning.  
She'll probably make it there before we do.  
We love you!'

"Eddie?" Oswald asks skeptically, grinning widely. "That's so cute." 

"Your mom doesn't have a nickname for you?" Ed is only barely flushed, relatively comfortable with being called by his nickname. Oswald, on the other hand, turns a deep pink.

"Ozzie," he divulges, looking away.

"That's amazing," Ed says, perhaps with a touch too much conviction.

They end up baking a cake. Because why not? 

Oswald stumbles over his own thoughts when he catches sight of Ed, coat off and sleeves rolled up, short apron tied around his waist. He's a sight to behold, in Oswald's opinion. He scans the image to memory as best he can, committing it so deeply that he nearly forgets what he's doing mid mix. Eventually, he gives up, letting Ed do the work while he perches on the counter, rubbing his bad knee lazily. 

Rarely does Oswald experience intimate moments with other people.

He's had a handful of crushes his whole life, none of which had ended well. The different children in primary school, but then there was  _Jim Gordon_ ; that was enough to end the process of pursuing crushes for Oswald. 

In this moment, he's not entirely sure that it even is a crush. Maybe he just  _really_ likes the amount of attention Ed is giving him.

The thought lingers.

Maybe he only likes Ed because the boy is giving him attention. Because he's conscientious of his leg without being disrespectful, because he isn't ashamed to be seen with Oswald, because he's smart and witty and quick on his toes, but he opts to spend his time with Oswald, every single day.

Oswald feels selfish.

He feels greedy.

"This frosting is  _very_ purple, but—" Ed is talking, a riddle and a pun until he finally realizes that maybe Oswald isn't listening. He walks until he's in Oswald's personal space, spoon in hand. "Oswald?" Ed taps a dot of frosting onto Oswald's nose, grinning. Oswald nearly falls off the counter, pulled from a deep series of thoughts by the smell of sugar and Ed's cologne.

"Sorry, I—" it all stops for Oswald, just for a second. He starts laughing, and he can't stop.

Ed laughs, too.

The tinny music coming from Oswald's phone is drowned out and the entire kitchen smells like sugar; Oswald feels happy, he feels comfortable. And despite the throbbing ache in his leg, despite the way gravity makes it feel like his leg is about to come off, he can't bring himself to stop laughing. The red of his face and the purple frosting on his nose come together in a shade that looks vaguely like bruise, frosting smeared after a pitiful attempt to brush it off.

Even as Ed laughs, his eyes are deeply focused on the smattering of freckles on Oswald's face, on his wide smile, his endearingly slightly off teeth, his eyes; Ed's photographic memory is working overtime.

"Oh, man," Ed finally says, getting a good breath in, "I'm so glad I met you."

Oswald freezes, catching his own breath as quickly as he can. Not quickly enough. He sounds breathless when he talks, fractured brain attempting to create a string of words that make sense. 

"I bet you are," and Ed is laughing again, even louder, even more breathlessly. The sound echoes in the kitchen, in the high vaulted ceilings, and it comes back down, falling right into the pit of Oswald's stomach. He feels it vibrating inside his chest, and it feels right. 

Oswald doesn't care how selfish it makes him; he doesn't want anyone else to experience this. He doesn't want to share it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah, ive decided ed's parents are super involved with their super smart son. they love him even though he kinda unnerves people. they're both doctors, because it gives me an excuse to make them absent often in a way that isn't Mean or Bad.  
> i dont like the trope of "uninvolved parents" to create drama. i think ed deserves involved parents who love him, so thats what i gave him. (: 
> 
> sometimes kids just need to be happy, im here to make that happen. 
> 
> talk to me on tumblr! i'm [ mayor-crumblepot! ](https://mayor-crumblepot.tumblr.com)


	8. VIII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> meet mrs. nygma, sweetheart extraordinaire but she lacks in bedside manner. ed and oswald compare scars, and ed realizes that it isn't as difficult to care for someone as he had previously thought it to be. he makes oswald laugh, and that's enough.

After prom, Oswald spends many nights at Ed's house. Not continuous swaths of time, but a day here and there every week. Oswald's mother is accepting, as long as her son calls her before bed, tells her about his day.

Often, Ed's parents are out late, sleeping into the morning when Oswald gets driven home. Rarely does Oswald get to interact with them, nor does he see Ed interact with them. 

It's odd to Oswald, a boy who was raised solely by his mother, who tells her everything he can, whenever he can. 

Then again, Oswald thinks, Ed is self-sufficient. His body doesn't betray him at every turn, and he doesn't have more enemies than friends. Maybe Ed just doesn't need his mother's assistance at all times; maybe Oswald is the one who has an odd relationship with his mother.

He pushes it all out. A thought for another time. 

Oswald wakes up one morning with his back pressed comfortably up against Ed's. Ed is insistent on opening up his bed to Oswald, welcoming him onto the large mattress as soon as they enter his room. Unlike Oswald, Ed sleeps like a corpse, only mumbling from time to time. 

Ed puts off a gentle heat, a body-slowing warmth that Oswald appreciates deeply. He lays there, awake, nestled into the blankets that smell subtly like cedar wood and jasmine flowers, aching spine subdued by the warmth of another body.

His leg is not so easily placated, however.

It takes some time, but Oswald manages to extract himself from Ed's bedroom, make himself more presentable, and wander down to the kitchen. He spends enough time in the Nygma household to feel comfortable helping himself to whatever he needs; Oswald makes coffee and pours it for himself in one of Ed's favorite mugs.

Early morning sunlight filters through the half shades on the window over the sink, the house is quiet, and Oswald can just barely hear the sound of wind outside. The winter chill hasn't pulled itself out of the air, keeping Gotham ever gloomy, as she must be.

When Oswald hears footsteps, he assumes it's Ed seeking him out. He does not expect to see Ed's mother, who smiles brightly at him, all dressed for work and bringing the smell of perfume with her. 

"Good morning, Oswald, how are you?" Ed's mother is a lovely woman, spindly and tall just like her son. She's some kind of doctor, as far as Oswald knows, but he's convinced she's a good one. Mrs. Ngyma is pleasant, polite, inviting, and always spices up her work outfits with fun earrings she finds at specialty shops. 

"Good, thanks," he smiles back at her, hobbling away from the coffee pot and out of her way to perch himself at the bar. 

"My god," she watches Oswald walk as she stirs her coffee, visibly wincing, "your leg looks awful." Despite her congeniality, Ed's mother still bears the trademark Nygma trait; occasional lack of tact. "What happened to it?" 

"Oh—" Oswald doesn't much like talking about his leg, about the ways he's tried to amend it with every home remedy his mother has seen online, but he doesn't want to see rude. "It was an accident. I was young. It's not so bad, now." They never had a cast, never had crutches. Oswald limped on a broken, mangled leg for weeks, until it stopped burning with every step and dissolved into a manageable ache. 

"How young?" Ed's mother is standing beside Oswald's stool, her mug on the counter, reaching out to touch the offending leg when Oswald apprehensively agrees to let her.

"Maybe ten or eleven?" 

"You're only eighteen now," she trails off, pushing Ed's pants up Oswald's leg, exposing the gnarled skin. Everything around Oswald's knee is an offensive off gray, a bruise that never disappeared. The muscle around his lower thigh has sunken, given way to nothingness and atrophy. The edge of Oswald's knee cap sticks out at an angle, edge marred by extensive scar tissue that continues to run down his shin and calf. 

His leg is hideous. 

He allows Mrs. Nygma this privilege because she's a doctor, because this is her job, because she doesn't pass judgment on things like this, and he knows it won't disgust her. She's definitely seen worse.

This is why he's never shown Ed, though. Because he isn't certain he will get the same reaction. 

"We could fix it, you know." Ed's mother's voice comes out of nowhere, accompanied by pain as she presses beneath his knee. "Some reconstructive surgery, a little therapy; you'd be right as rain." She smiles up at him and Oswald struggles to smile back.

"I'm sure it would be expensive," Oswald says, tracing the question marks on the outside of his mug.

"You can't put a price on quality of life," she laughs, finishing her coffee and putting the mug in the sink. "Think about it." And she's gone, out the door and into the world where she'll go on to fix many other people like Oswald.

Fix.

Fix them, Oswald thinks, because they're broken.

After washing both coffee mugs, Oswald wanders back up to Ed's room, crawls back under the blankets and presses himself up against Ed's back.

He pushes his forehead up against the ridges of Ed's spine, breathes in the detergent on his clothes. Oswald allows himself this moment because Ed always grounds him, always keeps him where he's supposed to be. 

Oswald falls asleep again and tries not to think about the discussion with Ed's mother.

He doesn't think he needs fixing. He's pretty sure he doesn't.

* * *

"Ed," Oswald taps ash from his cigarette, watches as it burns, "I have a question." 

They're sitting in Ed's backyard, sharing a lounge chair and heat against the evening chill. There's plenty of lights keeping the yard illuminated, a cleaner pumping movement into the water of the pool, wind making the trees offer a soundtrack to the otherwise quiet night.  

"Mm," from his reclined position, arms draped over his eyes, legs dangling off the edge of the chair, Ed barely seems conscious. Oswald turns from his position hunched over the ash tray, glances at Ed's chest.

"Several questions." With his free hand, Oswald toys with the drawstring of his borrowed pajama pants, strikingly similar to the ones Ed has on. 

"I may have answers." Ed turns his head as though he's going to look at Oswald, but his arms still stay over his eyes. 

"You're not squeamish, are you?" 

"Not really. Teeth are a bit weird." 

"But— With bones?" 

"No. Not at all." 

"Do you have any—" Oswald stops, pulls the blanket he brought with him over his shoulders, "any scars?" 

"Well, of course." Ed finally pulls his arms away from his face, sits up a little better. He rearranges himself so that he's upright, legs dangling on either side of the end of the chair. Oswald fixes himself so he's seated between Ed's legs, looking directly at his friend. The ash tray sits in the space between them. Oswald's bad leg hangs over Ed's thigh. 

"Show me." 

"Why?" 

"Because I'm eternally curious about you," Oswald laughs around his cigarette, a shivering sound that Ed leans into, "and why not?"

"This'll have to be an eye for an eye kind of situation." Ed is already rolling up his sleeves, shedding the blanket that he's draped over his own shoulders. 

"You  _would_ say that." Ed only shoots Oswald a look that is responded to with a smile. 

On his collarbone, Ed points to a dark puckered spot with an expression that could almost pass for pride. "I wrapped myself in Christmas lights as a kid; they got too hot." 

"Why would you do that?" 

"I thought they were neat," he laughs; such an Ed answer. 

"Okay, okay," Oswald pushes his arm out, a perfectly curved wavy scar going over his forearm, "my mother accidentally cut me when I was holding a pie crust up for her to cut into. She thought I'd put it on a plate." 

"Oh, no," Ed laughs and Oswald joins him, "did she finish the pie?" 

"Probably," Oswald smiles, "she doesn't waste food willingly.  _Especially_ not a pie." 

Ed lifts up his sleeve to show a burn on his arm. "Model rocket. Embarrassing failure." 

"My mother took me sailing once," Oswald shows off his own stomach, sunken skin above his belly button marred by the pattern of stitches, five of them, "and I promptly fell off the boat." 

"Of course you did," Ed says fondly. He tilts his head to the side, takes hold of Oswald's hand, and places it behind his right ear, traces it along a raised ridge. "I tried to cut my own hair when I was fifteen. I used scissors." Oswald's fingers linger there, run over the scar twice, then drop back to his lap. 

Oswald pulls the hem of his pants down only slightly, showing a long, curved gash that leads down toward his thigh. "I held a bunny rabbit for too long. Vicious things, rabbits." 

The two of them laugh until they're breathless, Oswald holding his chest and Ed throwing his head back. 

"Oh! Okay, look," Ed starts unbuttoning his sleep shirt, baring more skin than Oswald knows what to do with. Oswald can feel his ears burning dark red, running cold as he's shown a jagged, wide scar going across his side and into his stomach. "This is a little embarrassing." The way Ed runs a hand through his hair, fiddles with the frame of his glasses; it worries Oswald. "When I was younger, before we, um. Before we got a diagnosis— I had a lot of paranoia. I was convinced, totally sure," Ed laughs and shakes his head, "that I had some kind of device planted in my stomach or something. I, um. I dove right in, I guess. Of course, I didn't find anything." He smiles up at Oswald, somewhat nervous. "The doctor said it was surprisingly well done, for a teenager. My parents thought that was absolutely hilarious." 

"Christ, Ed." Oswald smiles at Ed, watching as his friend slowly loosens up. Less worried, more comfortable. "That is kind of funny. The doctor thing." He giggles, baring his teeth in a full, unguarded smile. Ed feels his chest swell. 

"Yeah," he leaves his shirt unbuttoned, but drags the blanket back over his shoulders, "now you go." 

Oswald thinks, taps a finger against the edge of the ash tray until he finally finds the courage he needs. "Right before in high school, I was kind of— a servant, I guess, to some girls in the neighborhood. I would do stuff for them; play messenger, manage disputes. They'd pay me, I'd use the money to buy my mother gifts." Oswald chews on his fingernails, sighs. "We don't have a lot of money. We had less back then. I wanted her to have nice things, so I kept working for these girls. It seems so silly now." He fiddles with the hem of his pants leg, twisting it between his fingers. He knows he can't go back, he feels Ed's eyes on him, attentive and kind, like they always are. "I messed up. They got mad. I don't even remember what about, but it was bad. They fucked my knee up with a baseball bat." Aggressively, Oswald pulls the pants up over his leg, exposes the stretched and bruised skin, the atrophied muscle and twisted sinew. "I could never afford to fix it. I'm just kind of... stuck like this. Broken and shit."

"Can I?" Ed's hands are hovering, quivering with blatant curiosity. Oswald shifts his body so that the offending leg is more in Ed's lap, offered up to him with a nod. 

"Please be careful." Leaning back on his hands, Oswald tries not to let himself sound as nervous as he is. When Ed looks up at him, Oswald knows he's failed. "I— I know you're smart and all. I just— It hurts."

"Let me know if I hurt you, okay?" 

"O— Okay." 

Ed slowly drags his fingers over the top of Oswald's knee, feels over the edges of the jagged bone, shattered and healed around itself. Every time the nervous muscle in Oswald's leg moves, Ed eases up and lifts his fingers up to only a ghosting touch. He looks up at Oswald, tries to read his face, only touching more solidly again when he's sure there's no undue pain. When is leg doesn't ache, Oswald's chest does. Ed's gentility is enough to kill Oswald right on the spot; it's the most kindness his leg has seen in all of its years. He doesn't even let his mother touch it much, anymore.   
  
Something Ed does startles Oswald, somewhere when his fingers dip into the gray, shriveled muscle on the back of his calf, and Oswald cries out. It's a terrible, strangled sound, falling into a gasp near the end. 

"Sorry!" Ed throws his hands up, reaching forward toward Oswald's hands, touching the one that's bunched up in the leg of his pants. "Sorry, Oswald. Are you okay?" 

"That was my fault," Oswald mumbles, doubled over, voice ragged, "I jerked. I'm okay." He slowly loosens his hand from around his pants leg, takes a long breath in and out. "This stupid leg, always acting— always being so fucking— so  _broken_." There's anger in Oswald's voice, vicious and venomous anger. Ed squeezes his hand, watches his face. 

The two of them sit quietly for a while, Ed just lets Oswald dissolve his anger. 

"Your mother offered to fix it." 

"What?"

"A few weeks ago, she offered to fix it." Oswald's voice is bitter, but he's not entirely sure why. "I just— Am I really that bad? Is it that awful to be around someone like this?" He throws a hand gesture over himself, lingering on the leg. 

"Oswald, no." Ed tries to find the words, tries to find a way to explain that he just doesn't want Oswald to be in pain, to suffer every day, but he can't. Oswald's eyes have this glossy look to them, and his chest is quivering with every breath; Ed thinks he might cry. "You're not awful." Is all he can manage before Oswald is a pitiful mess. 

They both know Oswald is an emotional person; he gets caught up in the swing of highs and lows, sometimes staying in bed for days at a time when it gets bad enough. Ed returns his hand to the ruined leg, squeezes healthy tissue gently, rubs comfort into the muscles as best he can. His touch is more firm this time, but just as careful. Oswald ducks his head and places a hand over his mouth as he shudders, as he cries with an embarrassing intensity. 

When it finally settles down and Oswald sniffles, Ed gets him to take a cigarette between his lips, which he lights for him. It calms Oswald down enough that Ed can lead them inside, upstairs, and into bed. Oswald curls up on the side of the bed that he's taken up as his own and Ed lies down next to him, staring up at the ceiling. 

"Are you okay?" Ed asks again, turning his head to look over at Oswald. 

"Yeah," he sniffles, then laughs at himself, "sorry." 

"I guess you could say," his voice builds, and Oswald can just feel something silly coming, "the leg is a bit of a  _sore_ spot." 

Oswald throws a pillow into Ed's face, laughter coming out of him in bursts. "You're the worst." 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> rabbits really are vicious. they are. i swear. all long nails and shit. somehow the meanest creatures i've met and the most fragile at the same time. i'm sure oswald fits that description as well. 
> 
> talk to me on tumblr! i'm [ mayor-crumblepot! ](https://mayor-crumblepot.tumblr.com)


	9. IX

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a surprisingly tame party shows just how clueless ed really is, how tactless victor is, and how much of a mess oswald is. maroni exists, i guess. ed's parents continue to be painfully supportive in the worst way. a decision is made. barbara deserves better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter has underage drinking.
> 
> don't underage drink, kids.

Nearer to their graduation, Butch gets invited to a party hosted by Barbara Kean. She extends the offer to any of his friends, whomever he wants to have along. 

"It's a big party, really," Barbara says, twirling a strand of hair between her fingers, "everyone's invited. The whole graduating class."

Butch knows how little people like him, Victor, Oswald, and Ed alike get invited to things. Let alone parties hosted by one of the most beautiful and sociable girls in their orbit.

He comes to Oswald with the news at lunch, over a mild day in the courtyard. Spring has finally started to arrive, the cold melting away, bringing plenty of rain and warmer temperatures. Oswald finally has to leave his jackets at home.

"All of us?" Oswald stares up at Butch, practically shaking with excitement.

"That's what she told me," Butch says, equally excited, just too big to emote it properly.

"We  _have_ to go." All wide eyes and gleeful expression, Oswald looks up to Ed for agreement. "We have to."

Ed concedes to drive everyone if they need him to, they can come home with him. 

The group sends off near eleven, excluding Victor. No, he hitches a ride with some friends of his, girls equally as intense as he is, whom Oswald lovingly titles the Zsaszettes. 

Barbara's house is large, sprawling much like Ed's is. Music plays inside, upbeat and peppy, and Barbara lets them in with a cheery smile.

She's friends with Oswald, to a degree. The two of them have similar interests, the two of them have been spurned by Jim Gordon, and the two of them are failing their math classes. They get along, usually.

She hugs him, praises his hair and winks at him when she sees that he's brought Ed along.

Butch runs off to find Tabitha, Barbara following him. Their girlfriend is draped over a chair in the living room, talking to a young girl with red hair and a charming smile. 

"I've never done this before," Ed admits, leaning close to be heard.

"It's easy," Oswald lies through his teeth, pulls Ed toward the kitchen, toward the alcohol, "drink something, talk to people." 

"Raspberry vodka?" The look Ed gives a bottle of Smirnoff Ice is outright comical, as if he's offended by the existence of such a thing.

"Here, have apple." Oswald opens the bottles, takes a sip off of the raspberry, then gestures his bottle toward Ed's in a mock toast. "Let's go find somewhere to sit." 

The two of them find a comfortable place outside, sharing a tacky two-seater lawn chair. Oswald smokes and Ed watches, innocently stealing drags when nobody is looking. 

Instead of bothering to reach out to other people, even the people they know, they sit with each other. They sit there, they talk, and Ed puts his warm hand over Oswald's knee to ward off the chill that comes with the light breeze. 

And suddenly it's two in the morning and people are passing out in the living room and Barbara comes out to find them sitting there, pleasantly buzzed. There are unopened bottles sitting around them and Victor is asleep on the table to their side, headphones in his ears. Maybe he's awake. 

"You two managed," she observes, smiling through her tipsy joy.

"We did."

"Mind if I bring out the survivors?"

"If there are any," Ed says smartly, laughing when Oswald giggles. Pride swells.

Barbara disappears into the house, coming back with a handful of people: Butch, Jim, Lee, and Harvey. In Barbara's hand is a little speaker, the one she'd been using inside, playing music as she walks. 

"Move over," she says to Oswald, preparing to throw herself into the seat he's currently occupying. 

"Why?"

"I'm in a skirt," Barbara gestures to herself, her too-short mini skirt and matching crop top, "I can't sit on the ground. Just sit on Ed's lap." 

There's a moment of quiet, of deliberation, until Ed rearranges himself so that his lap is open. Oswald sits, nervously at first, then perches his legs up on the chair beside Barbara.

"Alright, bitches," Barbara picks up a bottle, someone's unfinished beer, and knocks it back, "truth or dare." 

"Really?" Jim's voice barely sounds like his, so much softer and less aggressive than usual. Lee wiggles herself out of his grasp so that she can properly sit upright, legs crossed, enthusiastic. 

"Really. Butch," when Barbara says his name, it sounds like a song, "you go first." 

"Um." He scratches his head, leans back on his hands, "Dare."

"Let Lee slap you in the face, as hard as she can." 

"Barbara—" Lee tries to protest, only vaguely put off by the idea. 

"A dare's a dare," Butch says, leaning to his right so that his face is nearer to her, "don't hold back." 

The sound echoes through the backyard, disrupting Victor's apparent dozing. 

"What the fuck?"

"Holy shit, Lee."

" _Lee_ ," Oswald's voice comes through the ether, a grin on his face, "that was amazing."

She laughs shyly, gently pats the red spot on Butch's cheek before pulling back. 

"Damn," he doesn't even look disappointed, more amazed than anything else. "I pick now, right?" Resounding approval leads Butch to hum, looking at the people around him. "Harvey," he nods at the long-haired boy, smiles, "truth or dare?"

"Dare."

"Shotgun this." Butch throws a can at Harvey, all smiles. "I've seen you do it before. It's so great." 

"Oh,  _hell_ yes." Harvey cracks a hole into the can with his key, wrapping his mouth around it before popping the top and chugging, proudly throwing the can aside when he's done. Everyone cheers and he turns his head toward his best friend. "Jimbo. Truth or dare?"

"Oh, god," he groans, rubs a hand over his eyes, "dare, Harvey." 

"Wear your girlfriend's shirt." He gestures to the fluffy chiffon thing Lee has on over her jeans, barely big enough to probably fit Jim's broad shoulders. 

"Fine, Lee, let's—" Jim is about to tell her to follow him inside, but she's already unbuttoning her shirt, pulling it off her shoulders. 

"Oh,  _Leslie_ ," Barbara hoots, snickering as Lee sits there, offering her shirt up to Jim. He stares, face red.

"It's nothing  _you_ ," she grins as Jim takes the shirt from her, "or anyone else hasn't seen before." As he takes off his own shirt, she gratefully pulls it over her shoulders, giving a coy smile Barbara's way. 

Jim looks like an idiot in Lee's shirt even though it fits him surprisingly well. "Zsasz! You playing?"

"Maybe."

"Truth or dare, Zsasz." 

"Truth."

"How many of those girls are you having sex with?" 

"The Zsaszettes," Oswald supplies, twisting awkwardly to pick up his solo cup from behind him.

"None of them," Victor smirks, running a hand over his bare head with ease, "not a single one."

"You're lying." As if to demand truthfulness, Jim leans forward but only looks like a fool.

"Fully, fully truthful. Oswald."

Oswald's head swivels to meet Victor's voice, cigarette poised between his lips. He nearly headbutts Ed, choking on a laugh. "What?"

"Truth or dare?"

"You can't  _possibly_ —" 

"Truth or dare, Ozzie." Barbara pokes at his leg, swaying with the music playing around her.

"Truth," he finally says, sucking in the smoke that threatens to escape his mouth.

"Did you really  _love_ Jim Gordon?"

Someone in the background, probably Butch, tries to vocalize how totally  _not cool_ that question is. Victor isn't hearing it.

Oswald takes a long drink off of a cup of cranberry mixed vodka, then sighs. "I was absolutely in love with Jim Gordon, I would have done anything he asked me to." Maybe he's blushing, but he drinks more to ward the feeling off. "I trusted him with my life. I told him everything. I wanted him to love me as much as I loved him, so I did whatever he asked me to."

Across the circle, Jim is sweating through his girlfriend's shirt.

" _But_ ," Oswald settles more comfortably in Ed's lap, feels the other boy's hands tighten on his hip only slightly, "the past is in the past. Rightfully so. Lee," he flashes a sincere smile her way, "truth or dare, my friend?"

"Truth," she smiles right back. 

"Rate your sex with Jim on a scale of one to ten. Be sincere."

"Mm," she thinks, plays up the thought by tapping on her cheek, "a solid seven and a half."

"Seven and a half!" Jim is offended as everyone else laughs, Ed ducking to laugh into Oswald's shoulder.

"You're fantastic, Jim, it's just—" Lee blushes, giggles, "not the best ever." 

"Ooh, ooh," Barbara wiggles in her seat, waving her hand, "pick me!" Second to her pleading, Jim is grumbling, Harvey consoling him with a chuckling hand on the shoulder.

"Barbara; truth or dare?"

"Dare me, miss Thompkins."

"Give someone of your choice a lap dance," she says flippantly, "I'm sure you can do that."

"You're lucky I'm not gonna pick you," Barbara says as stands, stretches herself out, then turns to look at Oswald. "We're friends, aren't we?"

"I'm fairly sure we are," Oswald says.

"Oh, good." 

When the realization hits Oswald, his entire face goes hot. Oh, no. Not Barbara, of all people. She's  _capable_.

In the extent of their odd friendship, Oswald and Barbara had talked about plenty of things. And maybe he let on to her how much he liked Ed, how interested he was in keeping the other boy at his side. Just maybe, he was a little too honest with her. 

She rolls her hips over him, laughing so hard she snorts a little. Oswald is too flustered to laugh, never having been this close to someone in an explicitly sexual situation before. 

Barbara knows she's beautiful, knows how to use every aspect of herself to her advantage. A full chest and thighs make her more equipped to sway and roll, her long hair perfect for playing with. 

Oswald isn't sure if he's blushing because Barbara is taking the dare so seriously, or if it's because everyone is hooting behind her. Probably because that hooting means everyone is looking at him and  _oh, god_ he's blushing.

Barbara draws a perfectly manicured nail up along his neck and Oswald laughs, wiggling away from the ticklish sensation. He nearly loses his cigarette in the laughter; Barbara grabs it.

She brings the tiny thing to her lips, pulls air in and looks ready to give some kind of sultry smoke show— until she coughs. 

"What the fuck is this?" She's still coughing but it comes around giggles, "Menthols?"

"They were on sale," he admits, making Ed laugh behind him.

"Unbelievable."

"Sorry, Babs."

"Yeah, yeah," Barbara makes herself comfortable in the chair again, fixing her skirt that had ridden up her thigh. "Edward, dear. I believe it's your turn."

"Oh, I—" With Oswald still flushed in his lap, Ed almost feels nervous to speak. "Dare, I guess."

"Hm," Barbara smiles at nervous, flustered Oswald who is nursing his vodka in an attempt to ward away the blush, "kiss anyone."

"That's all?"

"I'm going to be generous and not take that as a challenge."

"Okay, okay," Ed throw his hands up in surrender, "I'm sorry."

Barbara settles back in her seat, satisfied. Ed seems to survey the group until Oswald puts his cup down, preparing to stand up.

Ed sets both hands on either side of Oswald's neck, thumbs settled on the curve of his jaw. Oswald seems like the rational choice— Ed trusts him, knows that Oswald wouldn't openly shame him. He presses a chaste kiss to Oswald's wet lips, tastes the vodka when he pulls away. 

"Was that okay?" Ed has his arms wrapped around Oswald's waist again, as if nothing had happened. Barbara is vibrating. 

Suddenly, Butch is talking and Barbara is laughing and everyone is chatting about whatever it was that Butch had said. Ed even participates, making a well-received joke of his own— Oswald is breathing heavily into his cup, lost.

Ed's hands are somehow comfortably tight on Oswald's waist and he's paralyzed. Oh, no.

"Oz," Lee is there, adorable in Jim's t-shirt, "I need to borrow you." She tosses a playfully sympathetic look at Ed as he slowly releases the other, waving. 

Lee drags him inside, takes him upstairs to the only clean bathroom, met with peace and quiet. She looks in the mirror, tosses her hair and wipes the crumbs of mascara from beneath her eyes. 

"You okay?" Her voice is soft as she meets his eyes in the mirror, watching as he moves the cup from in front of his face. 

"I—" Oswald shrugs, finishes the cup with a worrisome aggression. "I'm alright."

"Are you sure?" Lee turns around, fixes Oswald's hair and combs most of the product out with her fingers, wipes the smudges of eyeliner from his face. He looks younger without the spiked hair and makeup, looks more like the over-trusting, childlike mess that he is. 

"Of course." 

* * *

In the weeks to pass, Oswald starts more fights at school. Not picking on other people, but aggravating those he has bad histories with.

He instigates anger, pushes more and more people to the point where they decide to slam their ham-fists into his fragile face. The curve of his nose is a massive lump by the last two weeks of school.

"Man, fuck  _off_ , Cobblepot." Maroni is a brute of a boy, an unpredictable mix of fat and muscle attributing to his size. Oswald thinks, to himself, that about thirty percent of Maroni's mass is strictly his mother's lasagna. He's heard it's to die for. "It's like you've got a death wish or something."

"Maybe I do," Oswald says, body leaning heavily on the wall of lockers behind him, "you never know." Blood is dripping from his mouth, from his nose, tainting his teeth and gums.

"You don't even fight back." After five more punches, Maroni casts a few lazy glances up and down the empty hallway, throws another fist into Oswald's face and listens to the wet sound that echoes. "Why is that?" 

"I'm not a fighter," he grits through the pain, swallowing blood through his teeth, "probably because I'm such a pansy, huh?"

"Oh, you heard about that, huh?" Maroni massages his sore knuckles, grins. "Was I wrong?"

"I suppose not."

"That's what I thought."

"It's not like it's news. You'd have to be an idiot not to have realized it by n—" Oswald is cut off by another fist in his face, right into his jaw, sending him down sideways. He hits the floor more quickly than he had expected, jarring him into dizziness. That's new.

Somewhere at the end of the hallway, Oswald hears two cheerful voices devolve into hushed mumbles, the sound of shoes clicking as they disappear. What a short-lived audience. 

"You got a problem?" Maroni is talking, but Oswald realizes it isn't meant for him. Last he checked, Maroni didn't talk to himself.

For some reason, Ed is there, talking to Maroni as if the larger boy were a child. Barely taller than Maroni, Ed still manages to talk down to him, aggressive and dehumanizing, voice biting. 

From his place on the floor, Oswald thinks about just how humorous the sight is. Ed is an image in his vintage button up tee, his khakis that are pleated almost  _too_ perfectly, right down to his socks; the maroon ones Oswald had bought him once, as a joke. In the moment, he can't imagine why Ed would wear them.

The image confuses and entertains Oswald until Maroni is suddenly walking off. Ed is pushing himself up off the wall, holding his glasses in one hand, his nose in the other. 

"I had that under control," Oswald says, looking up at Ed.

The look that Ed gives him strikes the Oswald cold. It's dark and angry, his eyes so much more expressive without the glasses to shield them. And for a moment, for the seconds before Ed kneels down beside Oswald, it's not really Ed— it's  _him._  

"No, you didn't." Ed perches his glasses on his forehead, nose too sore to support them. He sits beside Oswald on the floor, leans his head back and deflates. 

"Did  _he_ just tell off Maroni?" 

"I think so."

"Oh, Eddie," Oswald tries to laugh but all it does is come out choked, making him cough. 

Ed is up and in front of him, shifting him into a more upright position, hands on his shoulders. He wipes blood from Oswald's face with his bare hands. 

"Your nose is bleeding," Oswald says, stricken with concern.

"What?" He hisses when his fingers meet his nose, smearing his and Oswald's blood across his face. "Shit." Ed shifts Oswald up, carrying him down the hallway. "You're lucky I stayed late today, huh?" 

"Very." Oswald wiggles himself out of Ed's grip, stumbling to the other boy's car with some dignity left. 

* * *

 

At his house, Mr. Nygma cleans Ed's nose in the kitchen as Mrs. Nygma fixes Oswald up in the bathroom. 

"You're lucky he didn't break your nose." Mr. Nygma scrubs the blood away, thumbs at the bruise starting to form over Ed's nose. "You must have really pissed that guy off."

"Is it really that bad?" 

"Pretty bad. Did you hit him back?"

"No," Ed says, a touch ashamed. 

"Be a little more careful, next time." Ed's father throws away the bloody napkins, shrugs his jacket on. 

"Next time?" 

"Oswald doesn't seem very well liked. You'll be doing this some more, I assume." 

"We are  _late,_ " Ed's mother runs through the house, grabbing her purse as she passes her husband, "dear, go start the car." After patting his son on the shoulder, Ed's father disappears out the door. "Oswald is too thin. You take care of him, alright? Feed him something." And his mother's gone, too, but not before she can kiss her son on the cheek. 

Out of the bathroom, Oswald is pulling his bloodied shirt back over his head, turning to face Ed directly. 

"I'm sorry about your nose, Ed," he says, struggling to not touch his own bruised face. 

"It's fine, really."

"I don't understand why you'd do something like that." Oswald searches for something to focus on, fidgets with a phone charger he finds on the counter. 

"You weren't defending yourself," Ed says, shrugging as if it's all just so obvious. 

"But you got hurt." 

"Not really. Oswald," Ed looks down at his own red-stained hands, "I would do anything for you. You can always count on me, alright?" His voice makes it seem so simple, like it doesn't feel terrifying and immense. He's never said something like this to someone else before. 

Oswald blinks, turns himself around and dives into Ed's chest for a painful hug. He wraps his arms around Ed's waist, no matter how badly his wounded body protests. Ed's hands settle gingerly on his back, avoiding the sources of pain. "Thank you," Oswald says, voice clouded with emotion.

"Of course." Ed stands there, holds him for a while, before pulling back to smile. "Let's get you something to eat, okay?" 

Oswald feels himself break out into a smile, uncontrollable and wide. This feeling of outright adoration, this swelling feeling in his chest; this is what Oswald was trying to avoid. 

He can still feel Ed's lips on his own, can still smell the other boy's cologne on his clothes, even after he washes them. 

Oswald likes this.

* * *

After talking with Barbara for a whole hour and a half, dreamy eyed and distracted, Oswald comes to a conclusion. 

"I have to tell him. Besides, what good is love if it's one sided?" Oswald stares at Ed across a classroom, watches him mix chemicals with a competent lab partner, actually fulfilling the throwaway assignment their teacher had tossed at them. Just for fun. 

Barbara scoffs, watches the water in their shared beaker change colors and spin; black, purple, blue. Neat.

"It can be plenty good." When Oswald looks at Barbara, she has her eyes trained on a beautiful girl, sitting next to a boy she used to love. The two laugh, too focused on each other to even bother pretending to be interested in the classwork. 

Oswald, for once, feels for Barbara. A girl— A woman who loves too much, feels too passionately; thinking so highly of herself but routinely falling so low just to feel loved. She would give up her own eyes if someone made her feel like she was really, fully loved. She deserves better than what she's been dealt, Oswald thinks. 

He takes another look at Ed across the room, smiles when the other boy waves at him, goggles pushed stupidly up his forehead. Oswald waves back, then sighs. 

"Babs," he turns his attention to her, closes his notebook, "is that a new lipstick you have on?"

"You  _noticed!_ "

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> at one point i had a playlist made for the kind of shit babs would be listening to at the party, but it's gone missing. cute indie pop, probably. shes a darling.
> 
> "young girl with red hair" is supposed to be kristin. not ivy. just felt inclined to clarify, cause ivy is very small. i'm playing with how i want kristin involved, because i really like her.
> 
> i really like playing with how deep in the shit oswald is. it's just so much. i mean, he'd listen to ed read the goddamn phone book and hang on every word. 
> 
> i feel like oswald, young and dumb, wouldn't know how to cope with the fact that ed doesn't seem to have interest in him romantically. oswald doesn't know how to fall out of love, so i feel like he would put himself in dangerous situations, if only to give himself something else to focus on. if you can't change your feelings, you can just divert them. 
> 
> talk to me on tumblr! i'm [ mayor-crumblepot! ](https://mayor-crumblepot.tumblr.com)


	10. X

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> kristen helps ed parse his feelings, and puts him on the right track. ed panics, and oswald is constantly reminded of his lacking height.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there's some major pda this chapter. nothing nsfw, though.

When everyone gets divided up for standardized testing, Ed is forced to spend more time with a girl he's taken to; Kristin. 

Kristin is as beautiful as she is capable, while also being equally unaware of both. She smells like tangerines and wears glasses that remind Ed of the secretaries he would see in old movies, typing away and tossing out snippy remarks. Above all else, Kristin is quick to throw herself in the direction of positive attention and is easily convinced that she deserves any and all mistreatment that may come her way. 

Ed isn't very capable of vocalizing himself, of explaining to her just how wrong she is, so he sticks to being sociable with her. He sits beside her and talks to her, listens to her when she feels inclined to be heard. 

Within the confines of a testing location, the two share a desk space for their lunch. 

"Can I ask you for advice?" Ed finally asks, setting his animal crackers down.

"About what?" Reasonably, Kristin is skeptical, unsure if she's ever heard Edward Know-It-All Nygma ask someone for advice.

"It's about— about  _people_. A person, specifically."

Kristin takes an elephant from Ed's box of cookies, breaks the trunk off and eats it daintily. "Sure thing; shoot."

"I have developed  _feelings_ for Oswald. I don't know what to do with them." It sounds practically fatal the way Ed describes it, as though feelings were an incurable disease.

"What, like you have a crush?"

"I guess."

"I mean," she starts speaking as she pulls her makeup bag from her backpack, setting products on the tabletop, "you like him? Buy him something meaningful, a gift that shows you listen to him. Because god knows Cobblepot can talk an ear off." Kristin laughs, voice laced with a slight tinge of malice as she reapplies her lipstick. "Then, when it feels right, kiss him. You'll know when it feels right. Yes, even  _you'll_ know. It'll be fine."

"That all sounds very vague," Ed huffs, inspects a bottle of concealer with far-off eyes, "are you sure it'll work?"

"He's crazy about you. It'll work."

* * *

It hits Ed when he's in the car, one day. Records.

Oswald takes his record player seriously, routinely making sure the machine is well cared for and cleaned. The few times that Ed has been able to take a long look at Oswald's room, the record player and collection of albums has always impressed him. Most of the music is old, from what Ed has seen, so he decides right then at the red light to buy records for Oswald. 

Not flowers, but records. 

He spends two hours in a tiny little record store down by the docks, surrounded by miscreant punks and pretentious jerks. Every record comes under scrutiny until Ed finds four that Oswald has described, on independent occasions, as his "favorite album in the history of music." Ed throws one of his favorite jazz albums in, as well, because he's seen Oswald bearing some interest. 

He's so proud of his decisions that Ed can't even bother to wait. Even at eleven at night, he comes up to Oswald's apartment door, surprised that his friend answers the door.

"You just missed my mom," he says, dressed in his pajamas and bleary-eyed, "what are you doing here? Are you okay?"

"Um— These. For you." Ed puts the bag in Oswald's hands, half expecting himself to turn around and go back to his car.

"What? Ed," Oswald draws his name out warmly, smiling as he looks back up, "come in, I'll put one of these on."

It's simple enough to follow Oswald into his room, but Ed's pride swells when the expression on the other boy's face grows more pleased with every album he pulls from the bag. 

Apparently, he did  _something_ right.

Eventually, Oswald has one of the records playing and he's settled up against the headboard, folded up on himself. He tells Ed about the music, tells him facts and jokes. For once, Ed is happy to be told what he doesn't know by someone else.

Ed's vision swims, at some point, overwhelmed with tiredness. He sheds his jacket and shoes, then puts his head in Oswald's lap. "I'm still listening," he says, to which the other boy laughs. He feels Oswald's fingers in his hair before he falls asleep.

* * *

It's two in the morning. Ed blinks narrowly at the darkness of Oswald's room. He's still in the other boy's lap, arms wrapped around his waist like a child.

"Want to hear something interesting?" Oswald's voice acknowledges Ed's consciousness, even if his body doesn't move. "You were my first kiss."

The fingers in his hair are still gentle, Oswald's other hand is harmless on his shoulder— Ed doesn't know what to do with himself, or what to say.

In the background, the record player runs the static of a long-finished album, humming like a television two rooms away. From further down his bed, Oswald's phone plays music quietly, soft and peaceful.

Ed goes back to sleep.

* * *

In the car, on the way home from school two days later, Oswald nurses a headache as Ed drives. The radio is tuned to classical music, meant to help soothe Oswald's brain as it pulses and revolts. 

"You were my first kiss, too." Ed doesn't look over from the road, knows he wouldn't know how to act if he did. It feels stifling, but then Oswald pats Ed's arm, sets his forehead against the other boy's shoulder. 

* * *

It's another late night in Ed's empty house, making use of the back porch. The two are standing too close, leaning against the railing, backs to the well-lit pool as they laugh. 

"God, Ed," Oswald says, closing his eyes and breathing in slowly, "you're the best friend I've ever had." 

"You're the best friend I've ever had, too, Oswald. Remember that." 

There's a question in Oswald's throat but suddenly Ed is in front of him. Ed has his hands on his cheeks, his eyes are half lidded, and he's kissing Oswald again. 

It's so much better without the audience.

Oswald pushes up on his toes, wraps his short arms around Ed's shoulders and presses into the kiss with all that he has. A tiny sound leaves his throat.

"I'm sorry, I—" Ed tries to talk with his lips right against Oswald's, but it isn't being had. Oswald pulls him back in, nips his bottom lip as a wordless complaint before kissing him more gently.

It feels like the last time he'll ever touch Ed, so Oswald scrambles. He kisses with a naive passion, shaking on his toes and whining pitifully. He can't get up high enough, can't keep holding himself up. As he starts to sink, Ed moves his arms, wraps them around Oswald's waist and holds him closer. 

"You kissed me," Oswald finally observes, head leaned back as he takes in air.

"You kissed back," Ed counters.

"You're damn right I did."

Now that they're pulled apart, Ed's large hands are pressed against Oswald's waist, just beneath his ribcage. He can feel the outline of the angry bones, rubbing over them with his thumb. 

"Is there going to be more of that?" Oswald blinks, beaming. He's caught off guard when Ed leans down and kisses him sweetly, moves slow and careful until the two of them can hardly breathe. 

Ed can only think so much before his brain shorts out, before it sputters to a stop like faulty electrical work. He can't find words when Oswald pulls back to look up at him, all freckles and bright eyes. It feels like he's sweating, but it's cold, and Oswald's hand on his cheek burns. 

"Eddie," he starts, watching the other warily, "you alright?"

Ed grunts an affirmative and nods his head with moderate force. It all feels so right, being this close, how easy it is to hold Oswald there, the smell of his own cologne on Oswald's skin. 

"I was trying to tell you how I felt, I just couldn't—" Oswald laughs, shaking his head. "I was scared."

"Scared?"

"It seems silly, now," he licks his lips, tastes Ed there, "considering."

* * *

It's been a week— a week of awkward skirting around each other and not speaking directly about anything. Oswald can still taste Ed on his lips, can still feel him on his ribs. 

"So, what exactly is this?" Oswald is draped over Ed's back seat, laying back to be gentler on his aching hip. "What are we doing?"

"Driving?" Ed asks, with some apprehension and obvious confusion. He turns on his blinker, then starts picking up speed after going around a turn.

"I meant the relationship, Eddie."

"Oh, um," Oswald doesn't see the way Ed's hands stiffen, the red covering his ears, "what do you want us to be doing?"

Oswald thinks, quietly digs through his backpack for a cigarette. "Pull over here." The car slowly glides off into an empty parking lot, a business long since closed. Oswald gestures for Ed to stand outside with him, lit cigarette dangling from his lips as he takes both of Ed's hands. 

"What are you—"

"Ed, I've had feelings for you since before prom," he explains, breathes in smoke and lets it pass from his lips slowly, "and I managed. If you don't feel comfortable, I can wait. Even if you aren't sure." It's hard for Oswald to say what he means, hard to wrap his lips around just how much of his heart he's inadvertently giving up to Ed. "I've spent the last few months just grateful to share space with you. If you want to date, I'm happy with that, very happy. But if not, I'll be content to just be around you, for as long as you'll let me, alright? This is about what  _you_ want."

Rarely ever do people put Ed's feelings at the top of their list of things to consider. Even more rarely do people sacrifice their own happiness for his comfort. He doesn't know how to respond, doesn't know how to keep the well of emotions from mangling his voice. 

"I—" Ed looks down at Oswald's smaller hands holding his, wrapped with conviction. "I don't want to do something wrong. You're my only friend, the best friend I've ever had."

"Edward Nygma," Oswald drops the failing cigarette from his lips, grinds it against the loose gravel with his boot, "are you afraid of losing me?"

"Very."

The honesty surprises Oswald, leaves him silent until, "You know you're the only person who's never hurt me. You're the only person I can trust."

Ed goes quiet, face flushed because this is all too much. The noise in his head and the pounding in his chest and the uncertainties running circles around him. His breathing hastens. 

It's not the first time this has happened; Oswald slides himself between the boy's open arms, holding Ed's face and trying to ground him. Oswald kisses his jaw, his cheek, then his lips.

"Slow breathing, remember?" Oswald speaks against the other boy's mouth, kissing him again afterward. If this is the last chance he's going to get, he's going to spend it well. 

Ed looks like he might faint. Like he might vomit. He looks up like there's someone behind them and Oswald is mostly certain there's not.

"Ed," Oswald's tone is almost warning, "look at me. Do you want to get back in the car?" Ed shakes his head. "Do you want to try and take a walk?"

They walk along the sidewalk on the edge of the narrows, empty buildings reaching eternally upward into the fog. Oswald doesn't say anything when half words leave Ed's mouth, he just listens and waits, keeping a keen ear out for the sound of Ed's car alarm. Just in case. 

As time passes, the sun starts to sink, and the fog starts to settle. Dusk in Gotham is just as miserable as dawn, just as sad and dreary.

"You're so easy for me to talk to," Ed's voice comes out of nowhere as Oswald guides them back to the car, "I don't understand why. That scares me."

Oswald keeps silent, kicks at rocks underfoot as they walk. It's going to hurt, he's sure of it. It's all going to hurt.

"I can't find a reason, a concrete reason, for why I want to be with you." Ed stops, rakes a hand through his hair for the millionth time, taking strands out with him. "I do, though." 

"You're kidding." Oswald can't believe it, not right away. It's impossible for this to be working out in his favor. It can't be.

"I— what? No."

For a moment, Oswald weighs his options. To bare his excitement might make Ed uncomfortable, but to not say anything might make him uncomfortable, too.

"You've got no idea how happy I am," he finally says, pulling Ed into a hug once they reach the car, "now let's go before it gets dark."

The two laugh as Ed pulls the car back onto the road, leaving the danger of the narrows behind.

* * *

Since deciding to label themselves as an item, neither Ed nor Oswald has known what to do. It's new to them both, being in a romantic relationship.

They sit on Ed's bed one night, Oswald watching Ed read. It's less odd to do this, now, but only slightly. It's still staring, regardless. 

Oswald scoots closer, places himself right in front of ed, mirroring his crossed legs. It gets him just that much closer.

"You'll hurt yourself sitting like that." Ed puts his book aside, reaches out to rearrange Oswald's legs so that they're extended. It puts him almost practically in Ed's lap, legs on either side of him. This will do.

"This makes me feel very short," he says, tapping his legs against the mattress as if to compare them to the gangly legs he's sitting between. 

"You  _are_ short." Ed wraps his arms around Oswald, keeps him secure and upright. "It's endearing, though."

"I'm not endearing, I could become a ruthless killer." Oswald musters a capable glare, not going so far as to pout. "You never know, Ed."

"Right," Ed laughs, outright giggling, "maybe."

Oswald reaches forward, hands on the back of Ed's neck, pulling the other close. It's so hard to not be nervous, to not be afraid. He's been Ed's friend for so long, the two have always gotten along so well. There's nothing that could arise now that could change the depth and functionality of their dynamic— Oswald knows this to be true. His hands still shake as he kisses Ed, as he presses his whole body forward to meet the other boy's chest.

It's impossible for Oswald to feel close enough, even with his hands firmly planted on Ed's neck. Even though every possible plane of his own body is making contact with Ed, it doesn't feel like enough. Oswald feeds on contact, on the feeling of being  _close, close, close_. 

Ed understands, gracelessly shifting Oswald up and in, just that much closer. He kisses back, something dangerously similar to a whine coming from deep in his throat until Oswald feels it against his own lips. 

Slowly, Oswald lets his hands crawl up into Ed's hair. It's so easy for him to get lost, get distracted, and suddenly he's ruined the perfect combing that Ed had done that morning. There's wavy hair falling into Ed's face, making him look much more disheveled than he truly is. Not that he cares, of course, because he's busy licking across the curve of Oswald's lower lip, something he'd read about in a few of the pulp novels he'd gotten his hands on. 

It all comes to Oswald in the moment, just knowing what to do with his own tongue, with his own mouth. Despite feeling secure in himself, it doesn't transfer into confidence that can stop the shaking in his hands. It only causes him to press his mouth more firmly against Ed's. 

Bitterly, Oswald has to pull back, tugging very gently at Ed's hair as he does so. As soon as he can, he takes air into his own lungs again, cool and refreshing. "Sorry," he says breathlessly, letting out a small laugh. His lower lip is deep pink, shining in the overlighting of Ed's room. With his matching blush over his nose and neck, it makes him look warm, makes him look like something Ed could find safety within. 

"No, it's okay." Ed leans forward, puts his forehead against Oswald's shoulder to catch his own breath. They'd have to work on that. "The child gets it for nothing, the old man has to buy it. I am the baby's right, the lover's privilege, the hypocrite's mask. What am I?"

"Ed, really?" Oswald can't help but laugh, full bodied and inelegant, "I don't know, Eddie. What?"

When Ed kisses him again, Oswald groans loudly. He doesn't let Ed pull away, though. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the answer to ed's riddle is a kiss. that's why he kisses oswald. 
> 
> i rewrote this so many goddamn times. these two are gonna kill me. 
> 
> talk to me on tumblr! i'm [ mayor-crumblepot! ](https://mayor-crumblepot.tumblr.com)


	11. XI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> oswald and lee are friends, but jim gordon does a shit job of appreciating his girlfriend. a mean nickname arises, as does some blood. kisses also happen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> update: fixed a stupid typo. jim will now be getting his "shit" together and not his "shirt" ;;; 
> 
> i don't know what happened. i don't know why this chapter is so soon after the last one. consider this a gift for being such kind people.

Lee's bedroom is a perfect creation of American teenage imagery. Her walls are painted a dainty blush pink, pictures of she and her friends tucked into the frame of the mirror on her vanity, a handful of stuffed animals sit on her bed beside her pillows. The sheets on her bed all match, even the blanket— it all goes together. 

She has a little radio on her bedside table, her phone plugged into it, music constantly interrupted by the sound of notifications. Her desk is littered with books and papers, anatomical diagrams, printouts, self-quizzes, all tacked to her cork board.

Lee is determined to get into medical school, determined to become a doctor, even if it kills her. God, does she want to help people. It fascinates her how versatile the profession can be, how many different directions it can take— how she could maybe help solve crimes, or maybe found her own hospital, or even go to another country and help people there. She's so full of hope.

Between her textbooks and her fantasy novels, she has books on notorious killers, old case files, every piece of information she can get. She can never stop learning, never stop pushing information into her skull.

All the while she looks fantastic, hair effortlessly styled and clothes well chosen to suit her tastes. No matter what, Lee looks purposeful and prepared, never underdressed or put out. She's something special, everyone knows this.

Oswald especially. He knows that she is destined for great things, despite the people who come in and out of her life, despite the amount of strain she puts on herself. Oswald is certain that he'll see her on television one day, if he lives long enough.

(Before Ed came around, Lee would help patch up Oswald's face after choice encounters. She would realign skin and apply bandages, then help Oswald fix his hair so that he didn't look so much like a mess when he went back home. She would use her gentle touch to minimize the pain, much like Oswald's own mother would, bringing with her the smell of roses and strawberries. Oswald was convinced, early on in their friendship, that Lee was an angel, very literally.)

While sitting on her bed, Oswald looks dreadfully out of place. He's traded his usual jacket for one of Ed's sweaters, but even with the splash of color, he's painfully monochrome. Against the baby blue bedsheets and pink walls, Oswald looks like a stain, a bug squashed against the windshield. Lee has her face pressed into her pillow, crying. 

"You already know what my advice is going to be," Oswald says, vaguely sympathetic, "dump him."

"That's  _always_ your advice."

"And it always will be. Just dump him. You're pretty, you can find another boy twice as good as Jim Gordon." It's easy for Oswald to say, especially considering just how much animosity he has for Jim, after everything he's dealt with at the hands of the other boy. But really, Jim has consistently been hurting Lee, constantly doing something that upsets her. She's mouthy like he is, she doesn't keep herself quiet, which leads to stubborn fights and big scenes. Lee backs down constantly because she knows he's not worth it, not worth breaking down in public, but it doesn't make her any less angry. 

"I care about him, though, really," Lee pulls her head up, sniffles enough that she can be more clearly understood, "I do."

"Yeah," Oswald says, shrugging, "but you can't fix him. It's not your job."

"But—"

"May I be frank with you?" Lee nods, looks up at Oswald through wet eyelashes. "You're smarter than this. How many times has this happened in the past month? Five, six? It's going to keep happening. If  _I_ know that, you know that." Oswald makes a dour expression, self-deprecating in its own right. "This is the kind of man he is. Maybe one day he won't be like this, but right now, he's going to keep being unable to stop himself. He doesn't listen, he's stubborn, he's angry, and he doesn't know what he wants. You can't change him and you shouldn't have to. You're not his mother. You can't make him a better man."

The silence that builds makes Oswald painfully aware of just how much he's said; about himself, about Jim, about his own upbringing. He's been in Lee's position too many times, being tossed around cluelessly by a man who isn't sure what he wants. He's sure he's loved a few of them, truly cared about most of them, but there's a point where it isn't worth it. No matter how good the good times are, no matter how happy and caring they can be— it's detrimental when it ends up with crying in bed more often than it does any other way. 

"You're right," she sighs. She doesn't sound happy about it, but Lee sits up and wipes her face, rubs her eyes.

"I know," Oswald shrugs, inspects his nails, "I often am."

"I'll talk to him later," Lee slides off of her bed, turns to her mirror to see what damage she's done by crying, "do you want to get pizza, or something? It's on me."

"It would be my pleasure," he says, leaning over to put his shoes back on as she changes clothes. 

* * *

Inside a little pizza parlor, Oswald sits opposite Lee in a booth. He's done his best to brighten her mood, spewing whatever gossip he's heard.

The pizza between them is hot and unnecessarily greasy and just the sight of it makes Oswald start to sweat. Good lord.

He lifts his borrowed sweater over his head, manages to shed it without incident. Absently, he moves the collar of his shirt to welcome air to run past his body, then fixes it to sit properly. 

The sound Lee makes is almost as if she's choking. 

"Is that a hickey?" Although she keeps her voice down as she speaks around her pizza, it echoes off the walls of the tiny building. Thankfully, it goes ignored by those who work there.

"Oh, my god," Oswald bows his head, cheeks burning deep red, "is it that bad?"

Sure enough, the dark spot on Oswald's collarbone is painfully well pronounced. Around the outline of teeth, the skin is red and swollen; within, a few spots have already darkened to a bruise, while the area around them is just dark, red fading into a deep purple. 

"Oz," Lee is leaning over the table, taking his hands from where they've come to cover his face, "did  _Ed_ do that?"

"Y-yeah."

Her smile breaks out so wide that it makes Oswald's face ache sympathetically. "Ozzie! How could you? You didn't even tell me!" 

"Well, I mean," he says sheepishly, "you were a bit busy."

"Never too busy for you," she responds, letting go of his hands to pat his cheeks, unrelenting happiness, "never. I'm so happy for you!" 

"You are?" 

"Of course. You two are practically a unit. I mean," she returns to her pizza, tossing a piece of cheese into her mouth, "you can't have one without the other."

It's so easy to fall into a discussion from there, Lee asking question after question about Ed. Is he a good kisser? Is he funny? Is he secretly ripped beneath those loose sweaters? Is he a good dancer?

"Does he make you happy?" Lee turns serious, pushing her plate away from herself when she's finished. "Is he good to you? Respectful?"

"Lee," Oswald looks at her, lopsided smile and red cheeks, "I promise, I'm very happy. He's good to me."

"Good." Like his mother does, Lee reaches out and pats his cheek. "You deserve good things, Oswald."

* * *

Hey,  _penguin_!" Jim Gordon is a force not even Harvey Bullock can slow; a freight train dressed in a standard issue letterman jacket. He comes upon Oswald in the parking lot as he waits by Ed's car, standing upright on unsteady legs. 

"Don't call me that," he says, clearly wounded by the nickname. He's been hearing it around, probably from Sal Maroni's lips; the boy never knows where to stop. It's not something Oswald can help, the way he looks or the way he moves. Before he can say anything else, Jim has punched him square in the nose, the bone and cartilage crunching underneath the force of his knuckles. 

He meets the ground quickly, but thankfully ass first. Oswald looks up at Jim, more confused than he is angry or afraid. 

"You couldn't stand the thought of me being happy with some pretty girl, could you?" Jim goes in, looking so much bigger now that Oswald is on the ground. "You had to fucking get her to leave me! All because you couldn't handle me being happy without you." 

"That's not the case," Oswald manages, mouth full of blood, "I can assure you, friend—"

Jim hauls him up by his shirt, pushes him against Ed's car far too hard. "Don't call me your friend. We're not fucking friends. We never were."

"Jim, please," Oswald doesn't have the heart in him to fight Jim off, he never will. Some terribly small and trusting part of him will always submit to Jim, will always think of Jim as the first boy he's ever loved, the first person he thought could love him back. It hurts him, deep down, because he ways thought that maybe Jim still cared about him. They still talked, occasionally. Never much, never long, but Oswald had thought, just maybe— He was wrong. "You're hurting me."

Tears are mixing with the blood on Oswald's face and he doesn't know when he started sobbing but it feels like it's been hours, from the way his throat aches. Jim doesn't loosen the hold he has on his shirt, knuckles pressing into the soft flesh of Oswald's neck.

"If you love me so much, why couldn't you just let me be happy? Why do you have to ruin everything you fucking touch?" It's all fueled by anger and upset, the feeling of being all alone, but Jim can't reign himself in. He punches Oswald again, in the face; his teeth clash together as he bites open the inside of his cheek, blood pouring down the back of his throat. "I know it had to be you. Nobody else would want me all to themselves."

"I don't want you, Jim." Oswald's leg shakes where it's pressing against the ground, barely making contact. Is he really so small that Jim can hold him up? "I don't fucking want you." He's still crying and it makes him sound absolutely pathetic, voice disgustingly clouded.

Lee shows up with Harvey in tow, screaming at Jim for what must be at least the second time that day. He still has Oswald up against the car, overwrought with anger.

When Ed shows up, though, he doesn't yell. His long legs bring him to the car quickly, and with divine purpose.

He hits Jim in the face with the sloppiest punch anyone has ever seen. It works, though. Jim lets go of Oswald and goes tumbling— not to the ground, but the few steps it puts between the two is enough for Ed to step in front of Oswald and worry over him. 

"You'll probably need stitches in your mouth," Ed says mournfully, upon seeing the state of Oswald's cheek. The tears keep coming. "Oswald," Ed's voice is unclear, although worry is prevalent. He kisses the top of Oswald's head and goes to pick up his things from the ground. 

" _This_ is why! This!" Lee has her keys in her hand, stomping her foot so aggressively that her skirt flutters. "You just can't stop! Oswald is my friend and you— look what you've done!" By the door of Ed's car, on the ground, Oswald's blood has made a mess of the pale cement. "Get your shit together. Alone."

She stops by Ed's car to apologize, speaking directly to Ed as Oswald curls up in the passenger's seat. 

"You don't need to be sorry," he says sincerely, head tilted to the side, "you didn't do anything wrong."

"I feel like this is my fault, though. I brought him into this." Lee is crying, too, far more beautifully than Oswald is. 

"I doubt he's upset with you." Ed tries to offer a comforting smile, then turns to the car. "I'll have him tell you when we leave the emergency room, how's that?"

Lee nods solemnly and cries for twenty minutes in her car before driving home.

* * *

After they get stitches in Oswald's cheek and they get his nose set, all thanks to Ed's father at the emergency room, Ed brings him back to his house. 

He only stopped crying when he learned Ed's father would be fixing him up. The last thing Oswald wanted was Mr. Nygma thinking he was a crybaby. 

Oswald taps away at the screen of his phone, leaned against Ed's chest in the living room. He's texting Lee, fingers going at high speed. 

"Lee says thank you." Oswald's voice sounds like garbage, ragged from the crying and soggy from the blood. "You were apparently very nice to her after she yelled at Jim."

"Of course I was," Ed shrugs, runs his fingers over Oswald's shoulder, "she's your friend."

"I keep telling her it wasn't as bad as it looked, but she won't listen."

"It was pretty bad, Oswald," he frowns, still apprehensive to look directly at the full extent of the damage, "you looked horrible."

"You flatter me, dear."

"Are you okay?" 

"I just got the shit beat out of me in two punches, Ed." Oswald cringes when giving Ed a look causes pain in his cheek. 

"I meant emotionally. With Jim, and all." Ed's hand has traveled up to pet the back of Oswald's hair, drawing the strands out gently. 

"Oh." Oswald stops typing, puts the phone down entirely. For a while, he just lets Ed play with his hair, leaning into the affection wordlessly. Eventually, he sighs. He reflects on what he said to Jim, how the boy's face had looked; Oswald considers them even, at this point. "I'm alright. I am."

* * *

Oswald has fallen asleep on Ed's chest halfway through an episode of a crime drama. Ed sits longways against the arm, Oswald's body settled between his legs and up along his torso. They've managed to find a position that doesn't hurt Oswald's face, or at least doesn't aggravate it. His good cheek is smushed against Ed's collarbone, where Ed can feel every breath the other makes.

It's a comfort to Ed, having Oswald there, breathing on him even if it gives him the shivers on every exhale. He smooths out Oswald's hair, fixes tangles and rumpled spots, locating pieces clearly more unruly than the others. Some strands are wavy and silver like his mother's hair, something that makes Ed smile.

With time to think, Ed decides that he has to do a better job of protecting Oswald. It's not something that Oswald would agree with, or even accept, but Ed has to find a way to do it. The idea of someone hurting the other makes Ed so uncomfortably anger that he can't think of any alternative. Oswald is his to protect, he needs to do a good job of it. 

Slowly, gingerly, Ed pulls one of Oswald's hands up from where it's settled on his chest. Ed kisses his knuckles, the pads of his fingers, the heel of his palm. He laces his fingers with Oswald's, appreciates the way his larger fingers just so manage to fit in the allowed space. 

Oswald's phone buzzes, screen bright against the darkened room. 

_From: Lee ✿  
All things aside, you two look cute together! (; He seems to really care about you. I approve, for now! ♡_

Of course, Lee would find something nice to say in the face of her own misery. 

* * *

The stitches in Oswald's cheek heal rather quickly, but it feels like years for Ed. He hasn't been able to kiss Oswald since the incident, lest he want to risk hurting him; the last thing he ever could want to do. 

It isn't until he sees Oswald chewing on a piece of gum that he realizes maybe the stitches finally aren't causing him pain. When asked about it, Oswald makes a playful expression, pressing his tongue against the hollow of his bad cheek. "Like new!" The bruise still looks angry against the soft skin, but Ed can barely contain himself. 

Before he can stop himself, Ed plants a kiss on Oswald's lips. It's simple and chaste but it pulls a hooting sound from Barbara. 

They part ways for class after that. 

It feels like too long, the time in between when he gets to see Oswald. Really, he sees him so often, this shouldn't be such a problem. It doesn't matter, though, because when Ed gets Oswald at their lunch, he's practically dragging the other to the car. 

" _Edward_ ," Oswald teases, a playful hand over his heart, "you can't  _possibly_ be suggesting we skip school." 

"That is  _exactly_ what I'm suggesting." Desperation aside, Ed opens the passenger door for Oswald, even takes his bag to the trunk. 

Ed has a specific parking space in the back lot. He's even gone out of his way to pay for a parking permit, just so he can't be kicked out of his chosen space. There's something comforting to him, always has been, to being parked at the back of the lot. With some tree cover, his car never gets hot when the sun comes out, never gets overwhelmed when the rains come through. This parking spot has been good to him, and it's kept people from bothering him when he comes out to read during his lunch break, among other times. 

The comfort of his car feels nice after being so stressed all day, over something so silly. He had thought he'd be able to make it until they drove back to his house, or at least to somewhere  _not here_. Instead, in the moment he looks at Oswald, Ed leans across the console and kisses him desperately. 

Ed surprises himself as much as he surprises Oswald, holding him at the base of his skull, purposefully avoiding the wounded skin on his cheek. When he leans back to alleviate the pressure on his hip, Ed realizes Oswald can't come with him. 

"Push your seat back." Oswald sounds outright breathless, flushed a deep pink over his nose and ears. "Put the wheel column up, too." 

Ed does as he's told, only to be rewarded with Oswald climbing into his lap. It leaves Oswald shivering and tense until he finally settles into a comfortable position and drops his head against Ed's shoulder. 

They've been this close plenty of times before, once just before the incident with Jim; Oswald had pinned Ed against the headboard of his bed, kissing him mercilessly. It's to be expected by someone like Oswald, who is merciless in so much else, but it still left Ed blushing and a little sweaty. 

"Ozzie," Ed still struggles to use the nickname properly, too accustomed to the way it sounds on Barbara's playful tongue, "are you alright?"

Oswald looks up and nods, only to be caught in a kiss. No nonsense, with Ed. 

It's comfortable for Oswald to drop his arms onto Ed's shoulders, bent up along the car seat. His fingers just perfectly reach up into Ed's hair, ruining it with every affectionate pull and gentle draw. 

Ed has taken a liking to Oswald's hips. With the way the other dresses, they're hard to see but with time, Ed has come to know and adore them. It works in his favor, too, because Ed's hands wrap around Oswald's hips securely. The warmth he gives off makes Oswald pliant, soothes the pain he sometimes feels in the offending joint. 

As he deepens the kiss, Ed brings Oswald closer by the hips, fingers tucked beneath the other's shirt. It's easy enough to kiss, even to kiss at length; Oswald could happily kiss Ed for hours. Even if it meant he had to stand, even on his bad leg alone, he'd do it. 

Sometimes, Ed mumbles when he kisses Oswald. Usually, it's thoughts he can't contain, little words or thoughts that don't really make sense. In the context of his mind, they do, but Oswald isn't given that much information. He's learned to give it very little attention, just enough to make sure Ed is alright. 

Now, though, Ed's hands are shaking and the words coming from his mouth are nothing but praises. "I missed being able to kiss you," he says, voice shaking in the face of saying something he can't quantify.

"Eddie," Oswald's voice is a low whine as Ed stops kissing, travels further down Oswald's jaw and toward his neck. 

Ed compliments his skin, his face, his voice and his body, all in desperate ways. He says he's lucky after he leaves another dark hickey on Oswald's shoulder. Oswald still clings to him, breath quick as he swallows back what little pain he felt. 

Oswald leans his head to the left, points to a small patch of skin where his collarbone dips beneath his shirt. He pulls the material down, giving Ed more space. "One more," he says, an absolute mess, "then we  _really_ should get out of here." 

Instead of bothering to nod, Ed kisses Oswald's skin, nips and teases before he latches on. It had only taken a few attempts to figure out how much Oswald liked the hickeys, then a few more for Ed to perfect giving them. Now, he's managed to find a way to give Oswald what he wants, leaving a hickey with plenty of different shades of red. 

With Ed's teeth digging into his skin, Oswald has let go of his shirt. He wraps both of his arms around Ed's shoulders, holds onto the shirt the other boy is wearing. Naturally, Oswald is a noisy person. His voice is grating and his gait isn't quiet, either. He gasps and whimpers as Ed holds him, hands firm on his hips, exactly where he likes them. 

Ed pulls away, kisses the hickey before disengaging entirely. "You alright?" 

"Hm?" Oswald blinks, looks through Ed before really seeing him. "Very alright. Yes." 

It's easier for Ed to just lift Oswald from his lap than to try and have Oswald climb back to his seat. He sets the other down gently, then fixes his seat and wheel. 

"We should do that more," Oswald says, once they're on the road. "I'd love to spend my lunch in the car with you. Especially if it went like that." 

Ed laughs, surprised with just how much Oswald enjoys being around him. 

"One of these days, though," Oswald puts his hand into Ed's hair, scratching at his scalp, "I'm going to wreck  _your_ neck." 

"Please do." 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i don't dislike jim, tbh. i rly like him. but i feel like he'd be a garbage can at eighteen.   
> some people were terrible in their youth, but that's okay, as long as they grow to be something better. we all make mistakes. 
> 
> i've come to the conclusion that i'm not putting nsfw content in this fic. i'm just— nah. them being babies and all, it's just better to let it be. 
> 
> talk to me on tumblr! i'm [ mayor-crumblepot! ](https://mayor-crumblepot.tumblr.com)


	12. XII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> graduation, i suppose. isn't that neat? oswald never thought he'd make it and ed is constantly surprised how much oswald cares for him.

Symbolically, graduating is a huge deal. It matters more to people like Ed, who take their intellect very seriously, but it holds something very different for Oswald. 

He  _made_ it.

It's not that he thought he'd die before he could graduate, or that he thought he was too stupid to ever make it this far, but it feels remarkable. He just never could imagine himself dressed in a "one size fits most" cap and gown, attending graduation rehearsals. (They're mostly for the band and choir, performers giving their last youthful hurrah; Oswald doesn't complain, it lets him spend more time doing nothing.)

When the entire graduating class is seated alphabetically, Oswald is far away from all of his closest friends— Lee, especially. Ed consistently looks back at Oswald, gives him small waves and occasionally sneaks funny text messages to him. 

This gives Oswald time to think about nothing, time to reflect on whatever positive memories he so pleases. He puts headphones in his ears and curls up on himself in the theater seating, surprisingly comfortable. It's enjoyable for the length of seven whole songs, including one of Ed's favorite improvisational jazz tracks, but then the girl beside him taps on his shoulder. 

Cisneros, he thinks her name is. He can't remember. Some of the people around him have faces he can't ever remember seeing, not even once. The fact that he even has a vague idea of what her name may be is nothing short of remarkable.

"Your boyfriend," she says, gesturing down to Ed, whose glasses are pushed up onto his forehead as he waves with a handful of papers.

Ed manages to convey a request to Oswald, asks him to meet him in the parking garage after the rehearsal; Ed's been called to rehearse his salutatorian speech, Oswald figures. 

"He's cute," the girl says, seeming endeared by just how well Ed wears his messy mind.

"Yeah," Oswald nods and shifts around to get more comfortable, "he's a real darling, my Eddie."

* * *

The gown that the school has provided to Oswald is too long, coming far past his knees. With this much of him covered, is it even worth it to get dressed up? Who will know?

He lounges on Ed's bed as the other boy gets dressed, deliberates between ties and shirts. Oswald figures his nicest button down will be alright. Not that anyone will see it.

"What did you say this gold rope is for?" Oswald stretches the offending object between his hands, twists it between his fingers.

"It's a  _chord_. For good grades; Honor Society." Ed doesn't blink, just stares grumpily at his reflection in the mirror. 

"And the purple one?"

"That's for the debate team, I think." 

Oswald sits up and disengages the purple chord from the many others like it, draping it over his own shoulders with a smirk. "Think they'll notice if I take one of your fancy ropes?" 

"Probably," Ed turns around and laughs, pulling the chord from Oswald's neck easily, "you should wear the salutatorian medallion."

"No, no," Oswald pushes the little metal thing away from him, "that's  _too_ much. Nobody would believe it." 

Ed kisses him, lets himself slow down by focusing on Oswald and nothing else. It helps with the stress he's been letting build up inside of him. When he thinks about being able to graduate, able to walk across the stage and be  _finished_ , all he can imagine is failure. All he can create in his mind's eye is emotionally crippling mistakes— tripping on the steps, panicking in his seat, misspeaking during his speech. 

"Go finish getting dressed," Oswald giggles, wiggling back away from Ed, "or else we're going to be late." 

* * *

It's easy for Oswald to sit in a chair for a few hours, easy for him to sit still and just  _watch_. His brain doesn't need constant stimulation, he doesn't get antsy when faced with long periods of silence. In fact, Oswald  _likes_ sitting quietly, he likes watching performances, musicals, television shows— even just birds in a park or the sun in the sky.

Between his mother's mania and his own nervous disposition, Oswald appreciates long stretches of peacefulness.

Alternatively, Ed can't stand it.

The honors speeches were the first few things to be completed— Ed coming second to Lee, the two of them sneaking back to their seats together. Since then, Ed has been chewing on the arm of his glasses; the paint is starting to flake off in his mouth. He swaps to the other arm. 

Having to sit still makes Ed's body unruly. His legs bounce and his feet tap and his fingers twitch— so much wasted time makes him anxious. It leaves him shaky and sweating in his cap and gown; he's so grateful when they're told to come stand backstage that he nearly falls over his own feet. 

From his place in the middle of the line, Ed barely manages to watch Oswald limp across the stage. Clearly, the sitting did a number on his hip and back, making the shuffling more pronounced as he makes his way to the camera for the photograph with their principal. 

The principal is a kind man, very understanding and very diplomatic. He's tall, built to be a dangerous dictator, but instead choosing to govern teenagers with a gentle hand. He congratulates every student that stands beside him with the most sincerity possible. 

When Oswald disappears from the stage, Ed's night becomes a countdown of minutes and seconds until the end. Ed's countdown begins to read as "how long until this whole thing is over," but evolves into "how long until Victor Zsasz walks across the stage." 

It takes too long, but Ed manages. Just barely. He practically runs out into the lobby, sucking in clean air with so much enthusiasm that it's practically embarrassing. 

His parents meet him first, praise him and give him the space he needs to finally stop overheating. Ed really isn't all that excited, now that the diploma is in his hand. He always knew that he'd get one, this isn't something that surprises or overjoys him. If anything, he's just glad he won't have to wake up early the next day.

When Oswald comes walking up, his mother so proudly clinging to his arm Ed finally feels inclined to stand up. Oswald isn't one in a state to run, probably never will be, so Ed compensates with his long stride— he scoops Oswald up with all of the excitement he can. 

He's  _so_ proud of Oswald. 

"Ed, I—" Oswald laughs obnoxiously as he's lifted into the air, a sound that suits his mother so much better. He speaks once he's been returned to the ground safely. "I was so worried. Are you alright, now?" For how little he understands mathematic equations and historical facts, Oswald makes up for it with perceptiveness. "The performances ran long, I didn't think you'd make it." 

Struck speechless, Ed nods and grins. Oswald is a sight; beaming and outright glowing with happiness. Ed always knew Oswald would make it this far, could make it further if he had the means, but to see him so happy is fantastic. 

Oswald's happiness and pride are Ed's, as well.

* * *

Oswald doesn't get home until late, his mother stealing him away for a special dinner, just the two of them.  

She takes him out with money he's sure has been saved up for months upon months. She can't stop smiling at him, can't stop reminding him just how proud she is; how _perfect_  of a son he is, and how lucky she is to be his mother. 

Casually, his mother orders him wine with his dinner. It's not uncommon for her to pour him glasses at home, on occasion, when the meal calls for it. Still, the act out in public feels playfully rebellious, even if it's within the law. It leaves the two of them giggling at each other. 

When he finally gets into his bed, the morning has already started, sun threatening to break through his blinds. His head hurts, his eyes are sore, and he feels like he might just die because he's so happy. 

He can smell Ed on his clothes, even still, after all these hours. 

Instead of changing, he stays dressed and curls up around himself. He surrounds himself with the smell, with the feeling of safety that it brings him.

From beside his head, Oswald feels the vibration of his phone throughout his pillow. 

_From: Eddie  
I haven't been able to sleep. Do you want to go get breakfast?_

Maybe, somewhere, deep inside of himself, Oswald is worried that things between he and Ed will change, now that they've graduated. What if Ed only likes him because he sees him so much? What if the freedom to roam allows space to grow between them? What if that is easy for Ed to accept?

Oswald gets off of his bed and fumbles with the buttons on his shirt, throwing it into the hamper. He pulls on something clean, long sleeves to keep him comfortable. 

_To: Eddie  
_ _God, yes, please. Call me when you get here?_

When he thinks about how much of a hassle changing pants will be, Oswald just dusts off the ones he's already wearing. He's too tired to bother. The phone in his pocket sings and he puts it up to his hear suspiciously. 

"I may have already been on my way when I texted you," Ed says, sheepish, "so I'm already here. No rush, of course."

"Didn't realize how early it was?" Oswald asks, shoving his wallet into his pocket and stepping into his shoes. 

"Not really, no. I wasn't sure you'd be awake, yet."

"Try  _still_ awake." With boots untied, threatening to slip off of his feet as he walks, Oswald makes it out of his apartment building. He sees Ed's car on the other side of the gate.

"Oswald, you need sleep." Ed doesn't sound half as serious as he's likely trying to. Oswald appears in his window, phone sandwiched between his head and his shoulder. Ed hangs up as the other slides into his claimed seat. 

"I'd rather get breakfast with you than sleep."

"Maybe I'll convince you to take a nap, later." Ed laughs, leans over to kiss Oswald's forehead before pulling away from the curb.

Much later, in Ed's house, Oswald falls asleep on an outdoor lounge chair. Ed finds a cigarette still smoking in the ash tray, half finished, when he comes back from the bathroom. He carries Oswald upstairs to his bed, endeared by just how small the other looks when he's asleep. 

Ed naps as well, finds himself curled around Oswald easily, holding his wrist in an attempt to focus on his pulse. It works well enough that Ed falls asleep not long after he gets comfortable.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you look closely, you can tell that i haven't experienced a traditional high school graduation. 
> 
> i went to an arts devoted high school, actually. our graduation was a three hour long performance; a song from rent was performed, i think. some band students played pop songs and the entire student section stood and danced— granted, it was only like 170 students, max. 
> 
> so, i based what i wrote off of what i've experienced. it may or may not be the most relatable thing, in the details, but i tried my best. i doubt it's that important, but i felt the need to explain why i had such.... high views of graduation experiences. 
> 
> (when i'm sure for those who went to traditional public schools, graduation processions are the Lamest things in the world. who knows.)
> 
> also. i made ed salutatorian bc i imagine he occasionally likes to slack off. one of those smart kids who knows he's smart— the establishment doesn't have to tell him that for it to be true. 
> 
> i can see lee, on the other hand, doing all sorts of wacky extra-effort shit to build up her gpa. i could see her taking online classes to supplement it, tbh. so yeah. i think she earned that valedictorian title. she's good.
> 
> anyway!! thank you for reading!!  
> next installment is kinda.... dorky fun. happiness for happiness' sake. 
> 
> talk to me on tumblr! i'm [ mayor-crumblepot ! ](https://mayor-crumblepot.tumblr.com)


	13. XIII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hey kids it's the beach episode, everyone has a good time and looks cute doing it

As the temperatures rise into terrible, muggy heights, Oswald complains more. (As if that's possible.) The idea of swimming in Ed's pool almost seems just as miserable; with the idea of the sun beating down and the lack of a breeze— Oswald doesn't even want to move. Not anywhere. 

Summer is probably his least favorite season.

"It's cooler on the coast," Ed says, a usual spewing of random facts, "not by much, though."

"Barbara mentioned wanting to go to the beach," Oswald practically whines, dropping his head onto Ed's shoulder. The two lie some space apart on Ed's bed, avoiding contributing to each other's consistent overheating. Even with the air conditioning, it's just too much. "We should go, sometime."

"Have you ever been?"

"No," Oswald shakes his head, reaches up to push the hair off of his head; after graduation, he got a haircut, shaved the sides and kept it short in the front too— it still doesn't feel like enough. "It's too far." 

Ed nods, recalls just how limited the Gotham public transportation is. Even a greyhound bus, that would be too expensive for such a short trip. "This weekend. Maybe you could invite Lee."

* * *

 

Barbara brings Victor Zsasz along when she heads out to the beach in her new car— a graduation gift she didn't really earn.

Lee drives alone, blasts girl-power ballads and shows up in the best possible mood. 

Ed and Oswald leave Ed's house in the early morning, enjoying the overcast skies until the sun breaks through the clouds. Then Oswald just whines. 

"I have light colored eyes," he says, huddling beneath his hands, "I'm sensitive to sunlight."

"Don't be a baby." Ed pushes a pair of sunglasses into Oswald's hands; dorky, circular ones with dark lenses— somehow Oswald seems to forget them every time he rides in Ed's car.

The sunglasses sit on Oswald's large (and now even more clearly angled) nose precariously. The slope of his nose is so steep that it seems like the glasses may just fall off, but they hand onto his ears. The look is endearing, very similar to the half-goth look that Ed has come to associate with Oswald. 

When they pull up on the beach, after many confused phone calls and various turns, Oswald waves at Lee from the sidewalk. She's set up an umbrella, where Victor sits in the shade as Barbara and Lee get sun.

It's not that Oswald didn't think about how much skin a bathing suit entailed, it's just that it didn't dawn on him how little he usually saw. Even on Barbara, known for showing off her body in whatever way she can, the skimpy bathing suit is enough to make Oswald blanch. He can only imagine what his mother would say. 

Lee, of course, is dressed more conservatively, but only barely. It's to be expected; Lee knows she's beautiful and loves to show off when she can. Especially now that she's single. Lee has taken to dressing however she feels inclined— that means a blue bikini and a matching sun hat.

She looks darling, really. It's almost painful. 

"Look who decided to show up," Victor is barely upright, leaned back on his forearms as he continues to sink lower and lower into the sand. "Come get some shade, Cobblepot."

Oswald accepts gratefully. From the drive and the time it took them to get down to the water, he's already a little pink.

"Put some sunscreen on, Oz," Lee says, gripping Ed's arm loosely. "Ed's going to escort me to the water." 

It isn't a question, he doesn't have a choice to do otherwise, but he's happy to pull his shirt off and follow her.

In that moment, it occurs to Oswald that he doesn't see Ed shirtless often. Not for any particular reason— Ed prefers to sleep in undershirts and shorts at the least, usually more. He's not constantly showing off, even though he has the right to do so. (Really, the only time he's looked  _bad_ was the few weeks when he tried to grow a mustache.)

Objectively, Ed is handsome. The few other girls on the beach staring at him support such a fact. He's traditionally handsome— Ed is naturally a wholesome looking individual.

Not so much like Jim, with his golden hair and his big, blue eyes. Ed looks like the type of boy you'd want to bring home to your parents, the kind of boy who opens doors and pulls out chairs without being asked. He looks  _polite_.

Just the sight of Ed and Lee out in the sun makes Oswald's skin burn. It looks so bright out there. He registers Victor's hands on his arms, rubbing nasty sunscreen into him, but he tries to ignore it.

"Take your shirt off."

Oswald groans, pulling the offending garment off with a vicious petulance.

"Just be thankful you don't have to put this shit on your head," Victor says, coming over to sit behind Oswald. "Here, do your face and chest." He squirts a glob into Oswald's outstretched hand, then does the same to his back. 

"You know—" Oswald squawks at the cold goop on his back, "You could just grow your hair out." 

"This is kind of my  _brand_."

"You do  _not_ have a brand, Victor." He arches his back as Victor's hands run closer to the small, grazing close to the waistband of his shorts. "Ugh, your hands are rough. This is the worst." 

"You whine so much, Ozzie," Barbara chimes, looking over from behind her oversized sunglasses. Oswald pouts at her until she turns back to the sky. 

Oswald works the sunscreen into his cheeks, his nose, even the shell of his ears. While Victor gets back of his neck, Oswald can feel it getting in his hair. 

"There. Ten minutes, then you and Babs can go." Victor returns to his ditch in the sand, settle back in comfortably. 

Beneath the shade of the umbrella, the heat isn't too stifling. There's a breeze coming off of the water that makes Oswald feel cooler, even though it smells like salt. Now he can see how Victor's fallen asleep in his little crevice; it's surprisingly comfortable. 

Barbara pulls Oswald up once the sunscreen dries. Without his boots, it's painfully obvious how much shorter Oswald is than Barbara, trailing behind her. Even with his sunglasses, the sun is so bright. 

When they meet Ed and Lee on the shore, Oswald pushes his sunglasses up and sticks his hip out. Walking on a substance that gives beneath him is hell for Oswald's knee, so he puts all of his weight on his good leg. 

"Ed found a crab," Lee says, gesturing at him, "how crazy is that? Look at it!" 

Sure enough, Ed has a small crab held between two fingers, little claws snipping furiously. 

"Why would you catch a crab with your bare hands?" Barbara asks, leaning in close. 

"They can communicate by waving their little pincers," Ed says, looking fondly at the crab, "isn't that  _neat_?"

"Eddie, you're going to get pinched." Oswald touches the crook of Ed's arm to keep him from bringing the angry crustacean closer to his body. After some deliberation, Ed kneels on the ground and places the crab back on the sand, a good length away from them. 

"Did you know King Crabs aren't even crabs," Ed looks up at Oswald, "they're asymmetrical. False crabs, like hermit crabs."

" _False crabs_? Like, crab imposters?" Oswald asks, giggling.

" _Imitation_ crabs," Barbara says proudly, hands on her hips. She then turns and stalks into the water, a terrible shiver running up her back as she comes into contact with seaweed. Lee goes running after her, laughing.

Ed goes to follow, only to realize Oswald isn't following him. 

"You alright?" Ed smiles down at Oswald brightly, one hand on his shoulder. 

"I'm—" Oswald shrugs, rubs a hand over his eyes, "Promise you won't get too far away from me? It's just— I don't trust this leg and I don't know, I just don't—" 

"Of course I'll stay close," Ed slides his hand down Oswald's arm, holds his hand solidly, "you worry too much." 

With a dramatic flourish, Oswald presses a hand to his chest. "You, Edward Nygma, are saying  _I_ worry too much? Unbelievable." Oswald grins and laughs, brightening. "The indignity of it all." 

"Be quiet." Ed kisses him, laughing as they walk off toward Barbara and Lee. The two are arguing about how dangerous seaweed truly is, why it has to feel the way it does. 

"That's how it evolved to be," Ed says, shrugging. 

"Yeah, well," Barbara has her sunglasses pushed up on her forehead, "I hate it."

* * *

When they emerge from the water, Oswald is pink, his hair pushed back out of his eyes. It's more forehead than anyone has ever seen from him. Barbara teases him for it, pokes at the many hidden freckles that she's only just seen for the first time. 

"Where do these even come from," she asks, finally pulling her hands back to fix her own hair, "your mom doesn't have freckles."

"She says my dad did," Oswald holds his head up proudly, "she says I got my nose from him, too."

"I bet it would be spooky how much you two look alike," Lee says, waving at Victor from a distance. 

"Eddie looks just like his dad." When Oswald speaks, Ed turns his head, squinting to see without his glasses.

"Oh, yeah," he says, nodding, "but I got my mother's eyes. Dad's are green." Without his glasses, Ed has a hold on Oswald's arm, desperately following him.

"Blind like your mom, too," Oswald teases. 

"Eyesight isn't entirely genetic," looking around, Ed blinks at random people on the beach, watching their soft edges blur into the sand, "but I assume that was a joke, wasn't it?" This close, he can make out the features on Oswald's face, the light pink tint to his cheeks and nose, the freckles that have darkened in the sun, his childish grin.

"Yes, dear," he laughs, "it was."

"It's all those video games you play," Barbara weighs in, ruffling her hair, "that's why you can't see."

"Ugh," Ed drops his forehead onto the top of Oswald's head, nose in his hair, "you sound like my mom."

Even as they come upon Victor, Ed doesn't recognize him until they're right beside each other. "You look tough without your glasses," he says, not bothering to sit up from the bed he's made in the sand, "like you wanna kick my ass."

"I couldn't hit you if I tried," Ed admits, fumbling for his glasses in Oswald's hand.

* * *

Eventually, Oswald convinces Victor to go down to a pier with him, to watch people make attempts at cliff diving. (He knows well that Ed is too smart to enjoy the display, able to calculate the height of a splash by an approximation of the angle that the divers jump at. Oswald and Victor are similarly incapable of such mental feats.)

Back beneath the umbrella, Ed and Lee actively try to explain absurd facts of the human body to Barbara as she sunbathes. 

"Blood makes up seven percent of your weight," Ed says, speaking more to Lee than Barbara, "isn't that amazing?"

"But why?"

"What do you mean 'why'?" Lee tilts her head, hair falling with her. 

"Like," Barbara gestures with her hand, "why? Why does it do that?"

"There— there isn't a why." 

"That's just how much you need," Ed adds, frowning.

"Weird."

* * *

You eat so much," Oswald says, looking at Victor, "why are you so fit?"

"I work out." As he walks, Victor sends a lingering glance at a group of girls. 

"Gross," the sound in Oswald's voice is enough to convey his distaste, but he pulls a face just to be sure Victor gets the point. "Don't stare, Victor. It's rude." 

Victor rolls his eyes but trains his eyes ahead, walks alongside Oswald, patiently meeting his short, lilting stride. 

For the bitter discussion that breaks between the two of them— Victor and Oswald fit together surprisingly well. Oswald's bite is in his words and Victor's is in his physicality; more willing to fight someone with his bare hands than sit and talk to them. It makes the two of them a reasonable team if they were ever to work together. 

They find a place down on the edge of the pier, feet barely touching the water's surface. Victor sits on Oswald's good side so that his swinging leg doesn't jar the wounded joints. 

After a small boy makes a surprising belly flop, Victor turns to look at Oswald's slightly sunburnt cheek. 

"Ed knows that if he hurts you, he's dead, right?" 

"What?"

"I'm serious." Victor rarely ever  _doesn't_ look serious, with his distinct brow and bald head— something about him always looks severe. "I'll kill him if you need me to." 

"That's— That's not—" Oswald is flushed pink, holding his slowly drying hair off of his forehead, "you don't need to do that." 

"You wouldn't do it if you needed to," Victor explains, gaze fixed on the retreating sun, "that's why Babs and I agreed that you needed to know we're on your side, if it comes to that."

"Oh," he doesn't know what to say, isn't sure that he ever will, but he tries, "thank you, Victor."

Victor just gives a shrug and nudges Oswald's shoulder with his, a general gesture of friendship. 

In moments like these, Oswald is reminded how lucky he is that Victor's loyalties are in his favor. Had time played out differently, the two would have been at odds with each other, on different sides of a very blurred line; Oswald knows this. 

For what Victor lacks in empathy, he makes up for in understanding. He's known Oswald long enough to read his expressions, to understand his motives, to know what he falls for and what it takes to make him see through it all. 

Victor was there through Jim Gordon— he was there before Butch was, although he didn't serve the same purpose. He watched as Oswald got tossed around, watched as he got used to further Jim's needs, as Oswald accepted it. 

It wasn't a spoken vow or written arrangement, but Victor decided that he didn't want to see that happen again.

Oswald is one of the only people who puts up with Victor's constant bitter humor, his stunted emotional skills, his penchant for long silences and weird stares— Oswald is one of the few people who seems to accept all of that as just  _part of Victor_.

In exchange, Victor accepts the many changes Oswald makes to his hair, his very obvious flirting with the concept of danger, his varying levels of terrible makeup. He accepts the manipulative tendencies, the weird intricacies, and the second other that comes with being Oswald's friend.

That's what friendship is about, he's come to think.

Oswald is the best friend Victor has ever had. 

"I don't  _want_ to kill him," he finally explains, leaning back so he can gesture with his hand, "but you matter more than he does."

"What's that?" Oswald smirks, leans his head into Victor's personal space, "Am I important to you? Am I your  _best friend_?"

"Shut up," Victor doesn't laugh, but his voice goes up an octave.

"You care about me," the teasing continues, only until Oswald softens slightly. "I would do the same for you, if you would ever need my help."

"I don't date."

"Then consider the offer extended to friendships. Or anyone, really." Oswald slowly lifts himself up from the weathered pier, wavers on his bad leg before finding his proper balance. He offers his hand to Victor, well aware it would do little to help the other up. It's the thought that counts.

"The same for you," he takes the offered hand but does all the work himself, " _friend_."

"Oh, my god," Oswald groans loudly, pushing the heels of his hands into his eyes, "it's  _so_ creepy when you say it like that." 

* * *

"So, have you two had sex?" Barbara's voice punctuates the music she has playing, interrupts the silence that has been building between the three of them. 

"What?" Ed sounds downright aghast, face bright red. Lee is giggling too hard to speak, going so far as to give an undignified snort. 

"Eddie, Eddie," Barbara teases, smirking as Lee continues to laugh, "we all see the hickeys. We're not stupid." 

"I— I don't appreciate your implications," he tries, hiding behind his book, "honestly, we haven't done anything like that." 

"Do you think Oswald is a bottom?"

"Barbara!" Lee gasps, feigning surprise at her friend's comment.

"What?" From her towel, Barbara throws her hands up in a vague gesture. "It's an honest question. He's so bossy, but he's so small." She twirls her hair between her fingers, bats her eyelashes. "I can't imagine him taking orders from  _anyone_ , even Ed." 

"He's a power bottom," Lee says quietly, breaking out into giggles again. She reaches out and pats Ed's shoulder, where the blush has started to spread, "Sorry, sorry. I don't mean to embarrass you."

"I mean," he manages, even more flustered when he sees Oswald and Victor returning, "I doubt you're wrong."

Both girls absolutely dissolve into scandalized giggles, Lee dropping her forehead onto Ed's shoulder as she tries to catch her breath. 

* * *

They all go out to dinner once the sun sets, tracking sand and the smell of salt into the dining room of a family restaurant. Victor drinks his soup like it's a goddamn beverage and Lee nearly does a spot take across the table at the sight. 

The waiter pointedly flirts with Barbara, continues to bring her drink refills at the speed of light, compliments everything he can about her. "Oh, my god," she says after he walks away, a hand over her eyes. 

"Just tell him you're not interested," Victor says around a mouthful of pasta, slurping noisily. 

"That would be presumptuous of me." 

"That's a big word for you, Babs," across the table, Oswald is smirking behind his glass of water. 

Soon enough, the waiter returns, this time carrying the dessert menu in his over-eager hands. Barbara pales. 

"Oh, babe," Lee makes her voice too loud, leans into Barbara's personal space, "you've got a little something." When she goes to gesture to Barbara's mouth, she just shakes her head and leans in. She kisses the corner of Barbara's mouth, pulls back with a breathy giggle. "There."

Much like everyone else at the table, the waiter is wide-eyed. "Um," he tries, "I'll leave this here."

"Shit," Ed finally says, grinning, "did you see his face?"

"He just got his hopes shattered, Eddie," despite his chastising, Oswald can't stop snickering, "have some sympathy." 

"Sorry," Lee says to Barbara, though she doesn't seem it, "I wanted to warn you, but he was there all of a sudden." 

For the first time in Oswald's life, he sees Barbara flustered. Her cheeks are rosy and her eyes are blown wide, smile slowly spreading across her face. 

"No, no," she says, "it's cool. Thank you."

They leave the restaurant late into the night, Barbara making Victor drive the two of them home. Lee hugs Oswald outside of the restaurant before retreating to her car.

"You take care of yourself," she says to him, presses a kiss to his cheek, "and you be good to him." Lee points at Ed, playfully stern, breaking into a wave as she walks away. 

When they get to Ed's car, Oswald sighs heavily. "I'm so tired," he says, pouting. 

"Do you want to just get a hotel room or something?" Ed puts his car in reverse, pulls out of his parking spot in favor of the road. "I don't really feel up to driving home."

"You— You'd be okay with that?" 

Ed frowns at Oswald from across the cabin, head tilted. "Of course I would be. You're my boyfriend." 

For some reason, hearing Ed say it so bluntly makes Oswald's heart flutter. 

"Then yeah," Oswald nods, leaning over to kiss Ed's cheek, "let's just do that. I'm tired." 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> typing up this chapter, i made a huge mistake. the "avenue q theme" from the musical played on repeat. the whole time. i probably had several brain aneurysms. whatever. that's relevant somewhere, i guess
> 
> anyway
> 
> it's hard for me to write anything without a beach involved bc my whole life has been like.... "it's just an hour drive to the island" so the beach was always readily accessible. 
> 
> i doubt anyone reading this is like, pulling up the official Gotham (trademarked, Official) map and is screaming so. it's cool idc 
> 
> little poll— would y'all be interested in a nsfw oneshot about the hotel room? i had always lowkey kinda intended to write a nsfw oneshot, and it would obviously be the softest shit in the world, but. idk— if y'all want that, i'll make that and post it. whatever y'all are feeling. 
> 
> okay thanks for reading thanks for being here !!
> 
> talk to me on tumblr! i'm [ mayor-crumblepot! ](https://mayor-crumblepot.tumblr.com)


	14. XIV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a holiday with a Ed's family and the realization that this may last a lot longer than Oswald had first thought Ed would want.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the end note is a novella. you have been warned.

"My mother doesn't celebrate the fourth," Oswald says, somewhat proudly, "she doesn't consider herself an American. Nor does she like loud noises, so she usually just takes a sleeping pill and knocks out around eight."

"You should come celebrate with my family," the suggestion comes with a practiced amount of casualty, Ed barely looking away from the road ahead of them, "they've been asking about you, anyway."

"Asking?"

"Well, I mean," Ed hangs a left, sliding up to a stop sign, "you're my first boyfriend. It's a big deal, to them."

Oswald smirks, leaning into Ed's personal space across the console, "To  _them_?" 

Ed doesn't answer him, just kisses him until someone honks at them for taking too long. 

* * *

Having been friends with Ed long before they actually started dating, that made it very easy for Oswald to ease himself in with Ed's parents. They already knew him, already liked him, already trusted him. Oswald didn't feel like he had to prove himself or his worth. 

Ed's parents had been mostly apathetic when they'd been informed of their son's relationship. They had faith that Oswald would take care of Ed, that they had raised Ed to take care of Oswald in turn. 

It was much simpler for Ed; Oswald's mother liked anyone her son liked. Ed is polite, well mannered, and speaks clearly enough that Gertrud is able to work her way through his words without much effort. 

Gertrud is the only family Oswald has. There are no cousins, there are no uncles, aunts, siblings. She says she came to America alone, she met Oswald's father alone, and she had Oswald alone. It's always just been the two of them, and they like it that way. 

Ed has a large family. 

Large, by comparison to Oswald's, especially. 

The sheer capacity of uncles, aunts, and cousins just on Ed's father's side alone terrifies Oswald, even in concept. People range from older than Oswald's mother to barely born, all looking vaguely like one another.

For someone like Oswald, who looks most like his father, this is a strange sight. He doesn't think he could stand seeing his own face in so many different people. Then again, for Ed, he thinks, it's probably easier; he's handsome. 

Someone in Ed's family has a ranch home; a several hour drive directly west out of the city. It's one of those old properties, something straight out of settlement times if you look at it in the right light. Ed parks at the end of a long gravel driveway, watching fondly as Oswald fights with his lighter. The filter of the cigarette in his mouth is pressed flat by his lips, anxiously clamped together. Ed reaches out and cups the end of the cigarette for the other, helping it to light. 

"Are you really that nervous?" he asks, watching Oswald try and reform the filter with his fingers. 

"No. Yes," Oswald signs, leaning gratefully onto the cane Ed had forced him to bring, "what if they don't like me?"

"Then we leave," the answer is so easy for Ed, smiling as someone comes down the walkway toward them, "and we don't come back. Ever." The man that slowly comes into focus looks too similar to Ed's father for Oswald's liking— he supposes it's an uncle. "I don't think that'll be a problem, though. Really." 

The man's handshake is firm enough that he jostles Oswald, ash falling from the cigarette between his lips. He invites them up the walkway, says something about an ashtray and food that Oswald attempts to sound enthusiastic about. Most of Ed's family is especially kind— Oswald barely speaks, sitting comfortably on a folding chair, next to a table with an ashtray on it. There's an aunt on the other side of the table, chain smoking and pointing people out by name. The names go over Oswald's head, most of them disappearing as soon as he hears them, but a few stick out. He supposes he can just ask Ed if he really needs to. 

Ed wanders around the backyard with his father, carrying fireworks and assorted means of seating. When Oswald had tried to offer help, Ed had sat him right back down, reasoning he needed to be careful with his leg. 

"The uneven ground may make you stumble," Ed says, planting a kiss on the top of Oswald's head, in front of everyone, "I don't want you to get hurt. Besides, you're a guest. You shouldn't be doing anything."

The ashtray aunt smirks, "He's right, you know," she shows off her own mangled ankle, then props it back up onto her footstool. 

* * *

Oswald waddles into the house with most of his weight on his cane, following closely beside Ed as he carries a tray full of brownies to the dining room table. As he moves from kitchen to table, Ed tells Oswald to sit down, guides him to a love seat by the mouth of the hallway and tells him he'll be back soon enough. 

Soon after he gets comfortable, Oswald hears a woman coming past, the slapping of sandals on hardwood. "Oswald, honey," she says, and he wonders how she manages to say his name with such familiarity, "hold onto Stacy for me, thanks. I'll be back." Suddenly, there's a weight in Oswald's arms; a tiny, squirming weight. 

At no point in his life has Oswald wanted children of his own. There were times where he would entertain the idea among friends, but he couldn't bring himself to be interested. Children are confusing, unreasonable, loud, and unpredictable. All things Oswald doesn't interact with well when a person  _is_ capable of communicating with him. With babies, it's just  _crying_ and  _guessing_ until something goes right, or the child forgets what it wanted to begin with. 

What Stacy wants, apparently, is Oswald's hand. He removes it from the handle of his cane, bringing it up into the baby's reach. In movies, he's seen people mention babies having a tight grip— he's almost unimpressed. Oswald considers standing up and taking the baby to someone who can more properly care for her, but he imagines the worst possible outcome. He images hitching the baby up on his good hip, wobbling on his cane and dropping the child like a sack of flour. The dangerous possibility ends before the baby hits the ground, but Oswald's brain supplies a satisfactory sound effect to keep him seated. 

Oswald wiggles his fingers at the baby, lets her grab onto him but pulls his fingers away before she can put her mouth on him. His ultimate fear of failing with children wars against his compelling desire to make a good impression with Ed's family. 

Never before has Oswald been more happy to hear Ed's voice. 

"How did you end up with a baby?" Ed sits down next to him, very close, "Is that Stacy?"

"Yeah, Stacy," he says, moving the cradle he's made in his arms toward Ed, "take her?" 

With a confidence that makes Oswald jealous, Ed reaches out and scoops the baby up and holds her up to consider her face before settling her against his chest. As soon as she's settled in, though, she starts to fuss and cry. "Oh, no," Ed says, unbothered, "I think she likes you. She's never been fond of me," he admits, scooting ever closer to settle the baby back into Oswald's arms; of course, she quiets down. 

"How did you know that was it?" 

"I don't know," as he pokes at the baby's cheek, Ed shrugs, "you're likable." 

"You  _have_ to say that," Oswald laughs, shifting the baby in his arms with a little less fear. 

"No, I don't," without skipping a beat, Ed plants a kiss on Oswald's cheek and sinks into the couch. "I say it cause it's true." 

The baby stays with them until her mother comes back in for food, catching Ed in the middle of explaining the laws of physics to her. He stops talking to look up at the baby's mother, only to have Stacy grab onto the tip of his nose. 

When Ed laughs, it's one of the best sounds Oswald has ever heard. There's something so wholesome about it, something so simple and unguarded— every single time Ed laughs, Oswald falls deeper in love. 

Oswald is certain that if Ed ever stopped laughing, he might die. 

He thinks that would be a pretty good way to die, though. 

* * *

"Have you ever set off a roman candle?" Ed asks, holding a series of cardboard tubes in his hands as he comes up to the chair Oswald been told to wait in. 

"No," he says, considering the firework he's been handed, "never. I've never done  _any_ fireworks, Ed." 

The realization that he'll be sharing one of Oswald's first experiences with  _anything_ brings a childish brightness to Ed's face. He grins in a way that Oswald is sure he wasn't meant to see, and it's one of the most amazing things Oswald has been blessed to see. 

"It's really easy," turning the fireworks over in his hands, Ed fishes around in his pockets for a lighter, "doesn't really do much, but—"

"Eddie!" Two small girls come running up to Ed, they can't be more than twelve, holding fast to his legs with roman candles of their own, "Mom said you were setting off candles, she said we could, too, if you watched us." 

"Your mother just volunteered me to babysit you?" Ed doesn't seem displeased, instead allows the children to hold onto his legs without any complaints, "And she didn't even ask me?" 

"Please, Eddie," they whine, so very good at hitting the most ear-shattering sounds, "please, please, please, please!" 

After long deliberation and a series of overdramatic hand gestures, Ed finally gives in, "Okay," as the girls barrage Ed with questions, Oswald considers the scene as a whole. 

Despite his inclination to get overstimulated, Ed does so well to be the adult around children. It seems that children allow Ed the space to be the dramatic man he wants to be— they love his riddles, his grand gestures, his theatrical voice. Even though he struggles through so many things, Oswald imagines that Ed would make an amazing father. Ed is so understanding, so capable and smart; what problem could he not solve for a child of his own? 

A fear swallows Oswald's stomach whole; Ed must want children of his own. His family is built upon having children and raising them around the whole family— how could Ed  _not_ want children? Ultimately, Oswald doesn't think he could manage having a child of his own to care for. 

His mother always talked about raising him, and while she loves him so dearly, she also makes sure he's aware of what all she had to do to raise him as well as she did. It takes so much dedication, so much effort, so much patience. 

Oswald doesn't hate children by any measure. The people who are able to raise children have always impressed him, he thinks they are greater individuals than he is. Parents have a higher level of humanity than Oswald has ever felt right to apply to himself. 

It makes him wonder, though, as he watches Ed make a show of patting over his pockets for a lighter, if he could ever give Ed exactly what he wants. Oswald would never be comfortable raising a child, not even with Ed at his side— is he worth Ed's time, then? Is it worth the bother to stay with someone who will never align with the plans that Oswald is so certain Ed has made for himself? 

Everything in Oswald's stomach has turned to ice, only melting when he catches Ed smiling at him over the heads of the two girls swarming his knees. Maybe it is worth it, for as long as it will last. 

"Here," Oswald says, pulling his own lighter out of his pocket and tossing it toward Ed. 

"Thanks," it takes Ed far too much focus to catch the lighter, but he smiles victorious, "Diedre, Nina, thank Oswald." The authoritative tone in Ed's voice makes Oswald's heart hurt. 

"Is he your  _boyfriend_?" Nina asks, looking up at Ed as Diedre walks up toward Oswald, investigating his cane. 

"Yes, he is," Ed doesn't hesitate and sounds far too proud, "so you'd better be nice to him, because I love him." Before Oswald can truly digest the fact that Ed has said he loves him, Diedre is planting a sticker on his cane. She's stuck a large, puffy penguin right beneath the junction of the handle and the shaft of the cane; the light blue surrounding the little creature stands out against the stark black metal. "Diedre, you can't just—"

"How did you know penguins were my favorite?" Oswald asks, cutting Ed's concern off before it can get very far. 

"They're my favorite, too," Diedre is all smiles, pulling out the rest of her sheet of stickers to show off every single penguin she has left. "I like the ones with the weird hair."

"Me, too," although it isn't entirely true, Oswald lies for the sake of it, "I think they're called Rockhopper penguins, aren't they, Eddie?" 

Given the opportunity to show just how much he knows, Ed rattles on about breeds of penguins and their distinctive looks. While Oswald and Diedre listen with undivided attention, Nina eventually gets impatient and gently smacks Ed with a roman candle. 

"You're talking too much again," she says, giggling as Ed takes the firework from her.

"Sorry, sorry," Ed sees the happiness in the child's face and returns it just as easily as he had started listing off facts, "are you ready?" 

When he sends the two children off with their roman candles, he helps Oswald set his own off, holding his hand to ensure he doesn't drop it. It's nowhere near as exciting as Oswald thought it would be, but he loves the fact that Ed wants to share the experience with him. 

Throughout the night, Oswald pretends not to notice the way Ed jolts at the loud popping of fireworks. He holds Ed's hand and sits as close as possible to him, realizing that maybe Ed's family is just as nice as the boy had said they were. 

They all seem mournful to see Oswald go at the end of the night, telling Ed loudly to bring him back around. 

* * *

Despite the late hour, Ed stops on the way back into Gotham and sits on the hood of his car with Oswald, just like they had so many months ago. This time, Oswald is the one full of anxious energy, choking on his own cigarette smoke. 

"Are you okay?"

"You said you loved me." Oswald doesn't give himself the chance to think about  _not_ saying anything, instead spits the words out as he coughs. 

"I— I'm sorry, I know it was—"

"No," he interjects, putting his hand on Ed's knee before the other can panic, "I love you, too. God," Oswald laughs ashing his cigarette with a shaking hand, "I love you so much, Eddie. I just—" 

Ed pushes forward and kisses Oswald, smiling like an idiot, "Sorry. Go ahead," he says after he pulls back. 

"You— How can I— I can't be what you want, not forever, you know?" The look that Ed gives him makes Oswald huff, struggling to find the words for the terror that had swallowed him up as the sun had gone down, "You're going to want a family, kids, this perfect reliability and I— I can't give you that, you know, I mean— I'd be holding you back from finding someone who  _could_ give you that, and—"

"I don't want that." 

"What?" Oswald drops his cigarette right onto his pants, the burning end landing on him and singeing him. He scrambles to dust it off, lest he stop Ed on the train of thought he's started. 

"I  _have_ a family," Ed says, surprisingly level, "you met them. I don't want— Oh, this sounds bad," he laughs nervously chewing on his lip, "I don't want kids. Nina and Diedre are amazing, and I love them, but— God, they make me so nervous." The nervous laughter bubbles up into Ed's trademark frantic laugh, "Did you see them with the roman candles? They were aiming them at one another! I— I couldn't survive a child, I wouldn't want to." 

"Eddie, you aren't—"

"I'm happy like this. What I have with you is  _amazing_ ," that stupid lovestruck look is back in Ed's eyes, so obvious even behind his glasses, "and I'm not saying you have to stay, especially if you don't want to, but I want you, for as long as you want to be with me. I know you," he's slowly losing his level, the peacefulness in his voice has given way to nerves, but his effort is admirable, "I know who you are. That's why I'm with you, Oswald." 

Instead of starting another cigarette, enough though he desperately feels like he needs one, Oswald takes Ed's hands and leans forward to kiss him. Their hands don't stay together for long, Ed wandering up to run his fingers through Oswald's hair, keeping constant contact. 

They stay like that, Oswald trying to kiss away the nerves that Ed has built up within himself, until a rogue firework in the distance startles them and pulls them apart, "Sorry," Oswald says, now able to breathe easier, "I guess some of your worrying rubbed off on me," he jokes, waiting to laugh until Ed does. 

"Maybe," Ed says, standing up and offering Oswald his hand, "that could be why I'm worrying a little less."

When Ed drives Oswald home, dropping him off in front of the gate, he rolls down the window and calls after him, "I love you."

Oswald walks all the way back to the car to kiss Ed through his window, speaking against his lips, "I love you, too," he's breathless, letting out nervous giggles as he finally pulls back and watches Ed drive off. 

It's all definitely worth it.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shoutout to baby query and echo, who are only such in name. the idea of making ed's little cousins take on the names of the riddler's trademark henchwomen, diedre and nina, was such a fun idea, it was impossible to pass up. 
> 
> anyway
> 
> reasonably, y'all couldn't have thought i was dead, because i've been putting out content that _isn't_ this. but it feels like i've been dead. 
> 
> my life has changed a lot since i started this work (which seems absurd and silly, considering it really hasn't been that long since i started it) and somewhere along the way i got really overwhelmed. 
> 
> this work really doesn't have a _ton_ more chapters in it, but i have a handful of ideas i want to put into it before i lay it to rest. 
> 
> the whole concept that birthed this work was that i wanted ed and oswald and everyone around them to be okay. i wanted them to live their lives in a controlled environment and be able to survive. it seems contrary to the source content but i couldn't care less— this work is about making characters who suffer end up happy, in the long term. 
> 
> that being said, i have a distinct end in mind. i know how i want this to end, where i want this to go. since it isn't held together by a specific plot, but rather a lack thereof, as time goes on these little chapters will have more and more space between them.
> 
> it's symbolic of time passing, things evening out. less drama, more growth. 
> 
> i figured it was only right to give you guys some clear idea of where this fic is going, and a rough idea on for how much longer it will be going. 
> 
> i love all of y'all for reading. i appreciate it so much. this fic and the ultimate response to it is what got me back into writing fanworks after a big break. you guys have reminded me that writing can be fun again, that there's no flaw with being self-indulgent, that there's always someone else in the world who shares something with you. 
> 
> thank you guys, so much. see y'all next update. hopefully it won't be as long as this last wait was! 
> 
> talk to me on tumblr, i'm all over that hellsite! i'm [ mayor-crumblepot ](https://mayor-crumblepot.tumblr.com)


	15. XV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> we meet ed's college roommate, and we get to see jim gordon again. oswald makes coffee and lee keeps a secret; not a bad one, though.

"You can't just live here." Ed's dorm mate, Jonathan, is terrifying when he's back lit by dim light. Oswald sinks lower beneath the blankets on Ed's bed. "You were snoring."

"I  _don't_ live here," Oswald whines, well aware that his clothes are in the tiny closet, his toothbrush in Ed's bathroom caddy, and that his shoes have their own specified space beside the door.

"You might as well." While Jonathan seems to be threatening Oswald to some degree, the younger boy simply goes to sit back down at his desk and resume working.

"You'll get used to me; Eddie did."

"I hope not," Jonathan laughs, giving Oswald a nervous smile over his shoulder.

Jonathan reminds Oswald of Ed, in a strange way. The boy focuses too hard on the wrong things and works himself into a frenzy, sometimes pacing the floor at three in the morning. He gets so deep into his thoughts that it takes physical contact to pull him out, even just to ask him to please move two feet to the left. Jonathan is rail thin, somehow almost worryingly so. Even Ed and Oswald, who were moderately frail in high school, have taken on much-needed weight. Oswald has taken to bringing his mother's leftovers and leaving them on Jonathan's side of the fridge. 

The dorm that the two (three) boys share is nicer than most, but only barely. Both Ed and Jonathan are scholarship students, roomed on a separate building on campus; one with larger rooms and smaller floors. At any point in time, only ten to fifteen individuals share a floor bathroom, but there's also a good chance that the power will be out at least twice a week in the building. 

In the beginning, Ed struggled. He missed Oswald desperately, even though he came to visit every evening after work. Ultimately, things didn't get better until Oswald started sleeping in the dorm, having Ed explain difficult concepts to him as a form of bedtime story. 

Now, just over two years later, Oswald takes his much needed day off in Ed's dorm, fast asleep in an adult bunk bed that smells like his boyfriend. Things could be much worse, he imagines. 

* * *

There's only one person in the universe who  _likes_ Oswald's uniform, and that's Ed. He makes a point to prove this by coming by the cafe Oswald works at, even if it's just a few blocks off campus. Ed tips Oswald heavily, flirting with him as he orders, every time. 

Ed is the  _only_ customer with such a good attitude, though.

Most days, Oswald is running cappuccinos at absurdly high temperatures and trying to parse a "iced, half-caff, ristretto, sugar free, soy milk latte," and what order he should even try to be making it in. Sometimes, when someone orders something easy, he feels like he might cry just from the joy of it all. 

It's barely past noon, and Oswald has already burned his hand on some woman's " _exactly_ 12o degrees" latte. When he returns to the register, holding the whipped cream can to his burnt hand, he doesn't even bother looking up at the customer before him; he makes eye contact with their chest. 

"Hi, welcome, what can I make for you today?" Oswald types his sales code onto the screen, ready to take whatever order gets hurled at him. 

"Okay, uh, yeah," the person flounders, cluelessly looking up at the menu, then back down to his phone screen, "let me get a medium caffe latte with, uh— vanilla syrup and, um, a shot— no, two shots of espresso. Please." 

Oswald resists rolling his eyes, pulling out a cup and scribbling the order onto the side, his own scrawl barely readable among the pattern on the insulated paper, "Can I get a name?"

"Jim," the voice suddenly feels strongly familiar, well rounded and wholesome, "can you break a fifty?"

"Jim— Jim Gordon."

The two share a beat of silence, Oswald finally looking up and finally focusing on the face in front of him. "Holy shit," Jim says, face brightening, "Oswald. Hi. It's— it's really good to see you. You work here?" 

"Yeah, um," Oswald clutches the cup harshly, letting go just before denting it, "yeah. I do." When he wants to keep talking, the woman behind Jim looks ready to scream, "Let me make your drink, on me— I'll take a little break and we can talk." Jim and Oswald ultimately agree to meet up in the same place on Saturday, and Oswald says he'll bring Ed along. 

* * *

Although it took some convincing, Oswald gets Ed to the cafe with minimal incident. The weather is nice, a cool overcast that promises rain— they walk, Ed chattering while Oswald works to ensure his cane doesn't get trapped on any cracks in the sidewalk. 

Jim shows up minutes after Ed and Oswald sit down, Oswald nursing a bowl of soup that he's fairly certain he dropped a bag of just yesterday, out by the trash cans. 

They talk about Ed's degree path, about the series of strangely specific courses he's had to take just to get a  _shot_ at the upper level courses. This is the third semester in a row that he's been dropped from a symposium on evidence markers. 

Jim babbles about the police academy, has to keep clarifying himself when he says words that neither Ed nor Oswald understand. He earns a laugh from Ed when he talks about how many steps there are in getting into his uniform. 

"Still beats an apron," Oswald jokes, to which Jim seems surprisingly sympathetic. When did he learn to act like that?

As Ed walks away from their table with his empty mug, he kisses Oswald on the top of the head and Oswald sighs dreamily. Ed gets caught up discussing Star Wars theories with a cashier; Oswald wouldn't have it any other way. 

"I want what you have," Jim says, jealousy thick in his voice. 

"Here," Oswald earnestly pushes his plate forward, careful not to spill his unfinished soup, "you can have it. I'm full."

"I meant your relationship; something that means something. True love." 

While Oswald knows that he loves Ed, while he's told Ed thousands of times and has been told himself just as many times, if not more, it always surprises him when other people see it. To have Jim call it what it is, true love; it makes something terribly small and warm inside Oswald swell. He knows he's blushing. 

"Just—" absently, Oswald stirs his soda with the straw, "I'm not going to give you advice about getting into a relationship; I'm only good at breakup advice. But maybe you should just focus on yourself, right now."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you were very selfish with Lee. Maybe if you work on yourself," Oswald keeps his words purposefully vague, "you'll find someone along the way."

"Is that how it happened with Ed?" Jim has started eating the soup Oswald had offered him, surprisingly using the spoon with proper etiquette. 

"Sort of," talking about Ed makes Oswald flush an even deeper shade of red, as if that's even possible. "Ed and I have grown together. He was there for me during the worst times— it can only go up, for us. That makes it easier."

"The worst of times being," Jim trails off, giving the soup a slow stir before looking up at Oswald, "high school, right?"

"Well," Oswald considers lying, considers fibbing just the smallest bit in order to save Jim his feelings. Then he remembers that he's been saving Jim Gordon from his feelings for as long as he's known him, he's been biting his lip and watching from afar, he's been so careful, so calculated, so polite despite the blood in his teeth— it didn't get him anywhere. It didn't help Jim, either. "Yes. High school was particularly difficult."

“I’m really sorry,” he looks so sincere, soft eyes and relaxed eyebrows. Just the expression makes Oswald feel like he might be sick, thrown back to being fifteen and having those eyes used against him. Oswald knows that isn’t what Jim is trying to do; he can read the nervous twitch of his hand, the clenched jaw, the hand he has running over the back of his head, up and down. “I— I was a wreck. It doesn’t make it fair, or right, but I figure you deserve an explanation and an apology.” Jim reaches out to, presumably, take Oswald’s hand in a gesture of sincerity, but Oswald doesn’t offer his hand up. He keeps both hands close to his chest, folded up tightly; Jim takes his own back, returns to the spoon in the bowl in front of him, “I’m sorry for everything. For using you, freshman year. For thinking I could get away with it. For blaming what happened between Lee and I on you. That was so stupid. We both know Lee wouldn’t just— You know how she is. Steadfast, headstrong; people can’t make her do anything she doesn’t already want to do.”

“You’re right,” he laughs, reaching forward for his soda, “she’s like you, that way. Both of you are so stubborn.”

“So are you, you know.”

“Oh, I know,” Oswald offers a grin, eventually putting his hand out for a handshake, “and I appreciate you taking the stab to your pride by apologizing. Knowing you, it means a lot.” Jim returns the handshake as Ed comes back up, holding a full mug once again, “Jim’s sorry for being rude. He apologized and everything— we’re fine, now.”

“Really?” Ed looks between them, sagging over his mug, “I can’t believe I missed _Jim Gordon_ apologizing.”

“I can’t believe it even happened,” Oswald teases.

“Okay, okay,” Jim ruffles his hair, pushing the fluffy bangs back out of his eyes before going back to the soup, “that’s enough.” Ed and Oswald both laugh, and when Ed leans down to kiss Oswald, Jim rolls his eyes and lets out a childish whine, “Come on, really? At the table?”

* * *

In bed, Oswald tucked up underneath Ed’s chin, he taps away at his phone in the darkened room. Jonathan is asleep in his own bunk, curtains drawn around the bed, surprisingly loud sound machine blaring the sound of rain on a car roof.

Even with every window curtain drawn, pulled tightly closed, it still is painfully obvious that the world is wide awake on the other side. Tiny slivers of midday sunlight weasel through the gaps brought on by the way the curtains move in the air conditioning— Jonathan can’t see them, thankfully, he’s still fast asleep. Ed thinks that the tiny spots of sunlight make it seem like they’re deep underwater, hiding from the world at the bottom of the sea.

Oswald sends a text message and turns his head to speak to Ed, only to have his phone start ringing. As soon as he accepts the call, Lee’s voice is loud through the receiver, “What do you mean you talked to Jim today? You had _lunch_ with him?”

“Yeah, we had lunch,” Oswald keeps his voice down, swallowing a hum when Ed runs a hand through his hair, “did you know he knows how to properly eat soup? His manners are remarkable.”

“What did you talk about?” Lee sounds like she might jump through the phone if Oswald doesn’t spill, “Why did you _agree?_ ”

“He caught me at work, I didn’t feel like I could say no,” Oswald hums, reaches up to touch Ed’s cheek absently. “He apologized for being cruel.”

“He didn’t use the word cruel,” Ed chimes in, and Oswald turns his affectionate hand into a gentle weapon, patting at Ed’s cheek grumpily.

“Is that Eddie? Hi, Eddie!” In his mind’s eye, Oswald can see Lee genuinely waving at nobody in particular. “Did you accept his apology?”

“I told him I appreciated it,” he realizes, then, that he didn’t actually accept Jim’s apology. It’s better that way, but still, “He asked me for relationship advice.”

“You’re kidding! I guess you are the one to ask.”

“Why do you say that?” As he speaks, Oswald nestles further in to Ed’s chest.

“Better question,” Lee counters, “what did you tell him?”

“I told him to be less selfish. To focus on himself, and that he’ll find someone along the way.”

“That’s terrible advice, Oswald,” Ed kisses his forehead.

“It really is.”

“I didn’t know what else to say,” Oswald whines, having to stop halfway to manage his volume, “he surprised me with that.”

“Watch him bring some kind of news reporter to the five year, what a fucking sight that’ll be—“

“Language, babe,” in the background of Lee’s side of the line, a woman’s voice bubbles up just loud enough to be heard.

“Is that Barbara I hear?” Oswald can’t contain his voice, practically sitting up in the tiny bed.

“Hi, Ozzie!”

“Gotta go, sorry, love you, bye!” Lee hangs up before Oswald can get another word in edgewise, leaving him incredulous and a touch mortified.

“You don’t think they were—?”

“Having sex?” Ed supplies, rubbing his eyes, “Probably.”

“Oh, my god. Imagine how this’ll make Jim feel.” Oswald laughs, dropping back against Ed’s side, leaving his phone forgotten in the blankets.

“Inadequate, I think.”

“Good. He needs to be put down a few pegs.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry it's been so long— lots of other works have grabbed me by the throat these days. this chapter is really short, too; at least, comparatively!  
> i have a few things planned for the next one, though. so hopefully it pushes a little longer than this one. 
> 
> jonathan isn't gonna be a consistent character in this— he's just here because i love him and want to show him some love. why is he in college if he's so much younger than everyone else? well, if gotham can recast my sweet boy to up his age, i can make some adjustments. 
> 
> anyway, thanks for sticking around!
> 
> talk to me on tumblr! i'm [ mayor-crumblepot ](https://mayor-crumblepot.tumblr.com)


	16. XVI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ed's family invites him to a wedding and he brings oswald with him. how very grown up of them.

When one of Ed's cousins, a lovely young lady with the warmest heart, announces that she's getting married, Ed gets his own invitation sent to his dorm. It's beautiful, lace and flower designs, begging Ed to join the "holy union of Miss Annalise Everett Nygma and Mister Jameson Cain Hudson." 

Oswald casually agrees to go with him, checking the "chicken" dinner box and helping Ed seal the envelope before realizing just how big a deal this really is. He needs a suit. He needs a haircut. They  _both_ need haircuts. 

Thank god Ed isn't in the wedding party. 

Still, the advance notice of the wedding is minimal at best— giving them under a month to get themselves together into semblances of functional adults. 

* * *

 

"That's a big step, isn't it?" Jonathan asks, fingers moving at high speed over the keys on his laptop, "Going to a wedding together?"

"I don't know," Oswald flips through a wedding magazine, considering color schemes and what the proper attire would be, "is it?"

"That's what the movies say," he doesn't stop typing, even when he looks over his shoulder for a second. 

"I can't imagine you watch many movies."

"That's fair," Jonathan sighs, saving his file before closing his laptop, "but really. What if you end up catching the bouquet? Then you'll  _have_ to get married."

"You say that like it would be a terrible thing," Oswald frowns at a photo of a wedding party, all in different shades of blue. "The women compete for the bouquet, by the way. I wouldn't be trying, even if I wanted to." 

"So does that mean you don't want to marry Ed?" Leaning over the back of his chair, arms folded up beneath his chin, Jonathan looks very serpentine and dangerous. 

"That's not what I said."

* * *

Oswald stands next to Ed outside of a tailor's shop, the windows caked in dust so heavily that it's difficult to see inside. "Every grown man needs at least one fitted suit," he argues, although he makes no move to grab the door. 

"If we die in there," Ed warns him, reaching out, "I'm going to be very upset."

"This was the only place that could get both of us a suit before the wedding," Oswald disengages from Ed's side to walk through the door, leaning heavily on his cane, "compromises must be made."

Ultimately, the tailor is a very kind old man who doesn't make any attempts on their lives. He draws them up plans for lovely suits, muted classic pinstripes for Oswald and black with green accents for Ed— the cost feels like far too much, but Ed's parents' credit card covers the suits easily. "They offered to pay," Ed tells Oswald, watching with amusement as he manages to swallow down his sickness in the face of the three digit price tags, "it's okay."

When they try the suits on, weeks later in Ed's dorm room, Jonathan can't help but tease them.

"You both look so old," Jonathan tells them, folding Ed's pocket square properly, so that it doesn't look like a napkin shoved into his breast pocket. "Very mature." 

The fact of the matter is, Oswald has had to be an adult as soon as he turned fourteen. His mother needed him, rent was high, and it's so hard to keep a house together and work two jobs. At no point in his life has he regretted stepping up and helping his mother— he wouldn't have it any other way. His mother is a saint and if it meant he could make her life better, he'd die for her. Still, he's felt like an adult for longer than he's been one. The novelty of turning eighteen was minimal, turning twenty even less. His mother has given him every possible pamphlet on the dangers of credit cards, has helped him sign up for the best bank accounts, and had someone teach him how to drive automatic, and stick just in case— as disadvantaged as Oswald is, he's prepared.

Ed isn't. 

Ed's parents will cushion every fall he makes, and he isn't entitled— he knows how lucky he is, knows that he has something that so few people do. He doesn't like to use his parents, doesn't like to pull their wealth out of his pocket and use it to solve problems; Ed would rather do everything with the sheer power of his mind, but he knows the world doesn't work quite like that. Nothing is ever that kind. The pressure of becoming an adult is one that has always haunted Ed, just a little. He has no older siblings, no parent who has had to struggle for anything during his lifetime; it's always just been him and the room to fail. 

Looking old makes him feel like he might vomit. Next thing he knows, someone will be telling him that he looks like his father, and while his father is a remarkable man, Ed loves him dearly, he doesn't want to be his father. Ed wants to be himself. He wants to be Edward Nygma, no middle name because he doesn't want a  _second_ option, youngest man to graduate with a degree in forensic science, youngest man admitted to a forensics department. 

It all seems so far away, and here he is, looking like his father already. He's already pushed twenty-two and he's started on the way down. How terrible; how embarrassing. 

"You look so handsome," Oswald says, putting his hands on Ed's chest and fixing his lapels. "Oh, I  _have_ to send a picture to my mother." 

"Oswald?"

"Yes, dear?" He barely looks up from his phone, taking a picture of he and Ed in the thin wall mirror. 

"I love you." And if he stands any closer to Oswald in the mirror, realizing that he doesn't mind hw similar the pose is to his parents' wedding photo? That's alright.

Maybe getting old isn't so bad. As long as he doesn't have to do it alone. 

They really might just make it. 

* * *

 

It might just be the culture of youth, it might be the fact that both Ed and Oswald each have different kinds of anxiety— they realize, as they walk into the chapel and find a seat in the pews on the Nygma side, that they don't really go out much. Not as a couple, on their own. 

The realization doesn't bother them; they prefer spending time with their friends, in a group of people who understand them. It seems a little strange, though, now that they think about it. 

Perhaps that's growing up.

After the bride walks in, Ed's beautiful cousin looking nearly exactly like every other woman in her family, two people come behind her and lock the church doors. 

Oswald looks at Ed worriedly, staring at the locked doors for a moment with the most suspicious expression Ed has ever seen him wear. 

"It's a thing," he explains, trying his hardest to turn attention away from it, "they'll unlock it soon."

Watching someone get married is enough to put Ed right to sleep— the vows are lengthy and so emotionally baring that he can't bring himself to listen; it feels like voyeurism. He taps a rhythm out on Oswald's thigh to keep himself entertained, to keep himself on anything  _but_ the tears of the people around him.

He's always been more partial to funerals. It's a lot easier to read the room at funerals. 

The reception dinner and ensuing afterparty is only minimally easier, but being seated at a table with a few members of his own family is nice. Oswald moves his chair a solid two feet to the left just so that he can be directly next to Ed, and the two of them share their meals. 

"You must be the bride's brother," a woman tries, talking too loudly to Ed across the table. Music has already started playing, although first dances are still to come, "I'm the groom's aunt. You certainly have an interesting family name."

"Annalise is my cousin," Ed corrects, blinking emptily, "not my sister. I don't have any sisters." 

"What Eddie means to say is," with a hand on Ed's thigh, Oswald leans in toward the table, wine glass in the other hand, "it's a very easy mistake to make. The whole family is very beautiful."

"And how long have you two been married then?" She gestures at Oswald, a flapping hand with little commitment, "How does it feel being married into such a big family?"

Oswald chokes on his wine, body jarring and tipping some liquid out onto the sleeve of his shirt. Red on white, he can't help but roll his eyes. 

"We  _aren't_ married," Oswald says tartly, rearing back to say something more but finding himself speechless when Ed starts pouring salt on his stained wrist. "What are you doing?"

Ed goes onto a tangent about solvents, and even though Oswald understands very little of it, he listens with rapt attention. The groom's aunt knows when she's been beat. 

It's so easy for them to get lost in one another, to start a conversation so close and hushed that other people barely want to come near them. Oswald is all intimidating self-righteousness, an unspoken threat, and Ed is a wit as sharp as a knife, green like vines crawling further and further up Oswald's legs. They do not come separately, they're a package deal. 

Ed drapes his arm over Oswald's shoulders, leaning in close to talk into his ear. He tells Oswald every family secret, he points out shameless alcoholics and fresh divorcees. The groom's family remains a mystery, one that Ed is determined to solve through deduction that he tries to get Oswald to help him with. Predictably, Oswald isn't very helpful, but he provides silly, unlikely details that make Ed laugh; that's all that matters to him. They even gossip through the speeches, Ed pointing out every misbalanced sentence or misused word. It's so nice, Eds cheek pressed against the side of Oswald's head, voice soft as he critiques men twice his age for what he thinks are "juvenile mistakes."

After the last speech, someone raises their glass and starts to speak; voice booming and loud. Ed's entire family joins in, speaking with purpose and champagne raised high. Oswald stares cluelessly, holding his drink in his hand. The champagne sits on the table, having been recently poured and passed around, but he has more faith in the alcohol content of his wine. 

_"May your mornings bring joy and your evenings bring peace._  
_May your troubles grow few as your blessings increase._  
_May the saddest day of your future_  
_be no worse than the happiest day of your past._  
_May your hands be forever clasped in friendship_  
_and your hearts joined forever in love._  
_Your lives are very special,_  
_God as touched you in many ways._  
_May his blessings rest upon you_  
_And fill all your coming days."_

And just like that, the whole family goes quiet and the band swells and people are dancing. Oswald looks back to see Ed unbothered, nursing the champagne as if unsure if the taste is something he's interested in. "What on  _earth_ was that? Is your family in a cult?" Oswald asks, reaching out for Ed's knee.

"No, they're Irish," he says flatly, deciding that he like the champagne and drinking the whole flute quickly, "lots of traditions, best not to think about it."

"So they do this at every wedding?"

"Most of them," Ed shrugs, then stands up and offers Oswald his hand, "would you like to dance?"

"I—" There's something beautiful welling up in Oswald's chest, a realization that this might be something he has forever. With Ed looking at him as if he put the stars int he sky, Ed trusting him with his family and his secrets, Oswald realizes that he has a future in this man. There's a world of events, of weddings and galas and funerals and Ed will be at his side through all of it. "Yeah," he says, finishing his wine and taking Ed's hand, "I'd love to."

Despite his leg, it seems that Oswald has a better grasp on dancing than Ed does. His mother had burned it into his mind, spinning him around their small kitchen from childhood; it isn't until this moment that he's thankful for it. He does his best to guide Ed around, face comfortably pressed into the curve of his neck, and Ed follows his cues well. 

"You know," Ed says, turning his head just enough to speak into Oswald's ear, "I probably would have never come to this, if it weren't for you." 

"Why do I feel like I should apologize?" Oswald laughs and makes himself more comfortable, sighing against Ed's neck. 

"No, you shouldn't," he kisses Oswald's hairline, the closest part of him, "I'm very thankful. I— we're better together, I think." 

"I think so, too," and even though Oswald has to get up on the tips of his toes, he leans up and kisses Ed square on the lips. 

The gesture ends up immortalized in the wedding film, and Ed's family members refuse to stop bringing it up at get-togethers. It gets much more play time than Ed thinks is fair, but he'll take any opportunity he can to talk about how fantastic Oswald is. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> photo-proofed eddie, unlike my other eddies, is irish. i know very little about irish culture but i googled wedding traditions so here we are. 
> 
> i've been working on a bunch of different things— this fic just keeps being my fall back. the issue is that i hate having in-progress works; everything else i write now gets written in whole before i post. thankfully, we're almost to the end with photo-proofed. a happy ending, of course!
> 
> i love these kids, and i love that everyone else has seemed to love them like i do. thank you guys for being so sweet to them. 
> 
> hopefully i can churn out these last chapters a bit more quickly. 
> 
> i'm on tumblr! i'm [ mayor-crumblepot ](https://mayor-crumblepot.tumblr.com)


	17. XVII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a school reunion, a gesture of youth, tattoos, and increasingly romantic promises

It doesn’t _feel_ like it’s been five years since they graduated from high school, and yet, invitations still find both Oswald and Ed individually. Ed is nearly done with his first degree on the path to many more, and Oswald is working his way up the business ladder at the coffee shop; he’s been promoted to manager, although the work is all the same, it’s nice to have a loftier title. (He’s come to find out that the owner of the coffee shop owns several other business ventures— small restaurants, mom and pop shops, and even a series of nightclubs. Oswald hopes that maybe he can work his way out of the coffee shop and into some of the better paying avenues. He thinks that he can, if he plays his cards right.) 

Everything is starting to make sense, and if all goes well by the end of the semester, Ed can start applying for jobs specific to his field of interest. (He actually has the paperwork for a job as a forensics technician at the Gotham City police department in his desk, waiting for the requirements to fill themselves, counting down the days until he holds the diploma in his hands.) They know that if they just hold it together, just a little bit longer, they’ll have everything figured out. There’s a future for them, and it’s building itself right before their eyes.

The reunion is formal, held at some event locale that Oswald has always known as “a little too fancy” for any of his birthday parties as a child. The website boasts hand-placed stone floors, plenty of seating, and wheelchair accessibility, while the invitation makes claims of free dinners, and a chocolate fountain, which sells Ed almost immediately. 

Ed goes shopping for a new tie to go with his suit, surprised that the thing still fits almost a year later. (Oswald had needed to take his to the tailor again, needed it taken out just a touch, but it still looks fantastic. He stands by his choice.) 

“What about green?” He asks, holding a vibrant, silk tie up against his shirt. 

“ _Another_ green tie?” Oswald does like the tie Ed is holding, but he’s under the impression that the purpose of their shopping trip is to create variety. “You should get that one, though. It’s very nice.”

“I’m hesitant to get something with a pattern,” Ed turns a tie rack, looking over a series of well-loved vintage ties, “what if it’s too much? _Oh,_ ” he offers something up, a deep purple brocade that borders on tacky in the right light, “please wear this.” 

“Brocade? Are you sure?”

“It brings out your eyes,” he says, holding it up against Oswald’s chest. 

Oswald kisses him in the middle of the secondhand store, pulling him down to his level to avoid a misstep and a tumble. They end up getting several different green ties for Ed, none of which are _very_ different from one another, but that’s alright.

When they arrive at the reunion, Ed watches lovingly as Oswald smokes his final cigarette before going in to the event. They parked at the back of the lot, after Oswald had conveniently forgotten his handicap placard for the window, and argued that “it’s for the best, I doubt they want me smoking up front.” Ed knows deep down that this is Oswald’s way of denying his own fragility, of denying the way his body defies him more and more with age. 

Ed doesn’t know how to tell Oswald that the steady addition of canes to his wardrobe is _extremely_ acceptable. Actually, Ed finds himself more than a little excited by the figure Oswald cuts in a suit with a cane in his hand, sitting just off of his side. There’s something regal about it, something powerful and unwavering— Ed _really_ likes it. 

In fact, it flusters him so much that Ed decides Oswald needs at least ten kisses to his jaw and neck before they head up through the parking lot. Somehow, they lose track of time, and Oswald finds himself surprised by the buzzing of his phone in his pocket. 

Lee has been looking for them, and they have to lie through their teeth about having been confused about directions. It takes them some time to get themselves put back together, but once they do, Ed manages to convince Oswald to use the ramp to walk into the venue, instead of trying the stairs. Little victories. 

“Look at you,” Lee says, hugging Oswald as soon as she finds him, “and Eddie, looking handsome as ever _of course_.” 

“You act like you don’t see us all the time,” Oswald teases, eyeing her floor-length blue chiffon dress warily. He’ll have to be sure not to accidentally put the tip of his cane onto any of the train. 

“I never see you all dressed up,” she tugs them toward a table, where she’s spread various people’s purses and cups out to make it seem like more people are seated than there truly are. Barbara sits with Victor Zsasz, talking animatedly about other people’s clothes. 

“Really, Victor,” coming up from behind, Oswald gets a good chance to take note of the various different textures on Victor’s suit, “black on black?” 

“What can I say,” he tilts his head back to give Oswald an eerie smile, “I have a brand.” 

After that, it’s as if they were all in school together again. Victor has plenty of gossip to spill about anyone and everyone, practically bursting at the seams with excitement when he’s allowed to tell the story of Jim’s recent break up with Valerie Vale, which was just about as public as anyone could have expected. The story comes complete with various photographs, various video clips of the scene, and the ultimate _scathing_ Facebook post that Valerie made when Jim had come to collect his things.  

The meal provided by the party planning committee is mediocre at best, and Victor is the only one to clean his plate. Everyone else picks around the unpleasant parts, finally offering up what remains to Victor— even he can’t eat all of it, though. 

“Last summer,” Barbara says, finishing her fourth cup of wine, “Lee and I took this little vacation to the coast. You know, rent a beach house, pretend you’re _not_ in Gotham. That kind of thing.” Nobody says anything about the way Barbara has inched herself into Lee’s personal space, how she’s hitched a leg over Lee’s lap and is now draped over her. “Of course, I can’t just go on a trip and not bring back something, so I got a tattoo!” Hitching up the top half of her two-piece dress, Barbara exposes a surprisingly simple mix of flowers, trailing across her midsection, just beneath the bottom edge of her bra. 

“Does that mean Lee has a tattoo, as well?” Oswald leans forward to look at Barbara’s skin, admiring the vibrant colors and elegant composition. He expects nothing less from Barbara, and while he’s unsurprised to find that she’s put something so gorgeous on her body, he can’t say that she was at the top of his list of people he expected to get a tattoo. 

“No,” it almost sounds like Lee is pouting, but it soon gives way to laughter when Barbara kisses her cheek, “I got scared, and Barbara was _asleep_ during hers, so she doesn’t remember how badly it hurt.” 

“We,” Victor wags a finger around the circle, grinning cheekily, “should get tattoos together.” Of course, Victor has had a head start on everyone, arms mixed up in a series of elegant designs and goofy phrases; a combination of timelessness and pleasant memories. Somewhere, over his shoulder, a colony of tally marks has started growing— the count sits around sixty, more or less, and he refuses to tell anyone what it’s for. 

“Tomorrow,” Lee says, holding up her glass of wine. “Tonight? Barbara’s parents are letting us stay in the mansion this week— you should all come back with us.” 

* * *

Barbara’s parents spend most of their time out of the country, and when they _are_ in Gotham, they’ve taken a liking to the house they’ve purchased on the coast. Their series of properties within the city often go unappreciated— filled with workers that have nothing to do. Mr. and Mrs. Kean love their daughter, they do, and it might just be because they never see her, but Barbara is willing to take what she can get. If her parents never have to know about her girlfriends, her breakups, her budding alcohol problem; that’s fine with her. 

Her family has more money than Ed’s. In fact, she’s fairly certain her father purchased the hospital that Ed’s parents work in, but she doesn’t want to say anything about it. It’s surreal, as a young adult, to be part of a family that could buy and sell the lives of your friends. Barbara tries not to think about it, tries to tell herself that nobody would care if they knew the extent of her parents’ money. 

The mansion, not unlike the one she was living in during high school, is too big for its own good. There are rooms in it that Barbara has never seen, hallways that lead to places in the house that Barbara doesn’t know off the top of her head. What she does know, though, is where the wet bar is. 

Everyone sits around the pool, foregoing mixed drinks for the bottles straight out of the liquor cabinet— Oswald and Victor match each other in shots of vodka, Edward works through a bottle of sangria with a surprising alcohol content, Lee has a bottle of Rumchata, and Barbara has a little of everything, as per usual. 

Lee talks about her first cadaver course, and she shows Ed pictures that make everyone else feel ill. Still, slurring his words, Ed manages to name every single bone that’s been exposed with surprising accuracy. Victor trades jackets with Oswald, earning a laugh from everyone when the shoulders barely come over his own; the sight of Oswald in Victor’s oversized jacket has Barbara in hysterics, laughing so hard she gets the hiccups. 

At some point, Barbara tries to teach Ed how to dance, the two of them drunkenly missing steps and stumbling against each others’ bare feet; offside, Oswald laughs as Lee tries to guide them along, like a parent at a children’s baseball game. 

“Aren’t you supposed to be leading?” Barbara says, poking at Ed’s chest.

“I _am_ leading,” he puts a hand on his hip, wrinkling his nose, “you keep trying to lead over me.”

“What can I say, I’m a powerful woman.” 

“Yeah,” Ed smirks, standing up taller as he tries to speak clearly, “if your power is being bad at dancing.”

“ _Ooh!”_ Victor knocks back another shot, laughing obnoxiously as he sees Barbara plant a hand over her chest. 

“Eddie,” she says, taking a step closer to him, “where’s your phone?” 

“With Oswald,” and Oswald holds the offending electronic up proudly, the screen shimmering with a silly picture of the two of them together. 

“Great,” Barbara pushes him into the deep end of the pool, but not before Ed can take hold of her wrist and bring her down with him. They both come up soon after breaking the surface, Barbara’s skirt floating around her, Ed holding his glasses in his hand and searching for a poolside edge to set them on. 

Everyone comes to the edge of the pool, looking worriedly down at the two of them, until Ed starts laughing. Barbara is laughing too, her makeup running more and more every time she dips under the water’s surface. 

“Move,” Lee tells them, taking the pins out of her hair before jumping in, making water splash out of the pool and onto the brick edge. Oswald takes two steps back, avoiding the water. 

Oswald considers taking pictures, considers immortalizing this beautiful moment and saving it, but when he turns to find his phone, he notices that Victor is staring at him. Victor has already ditched his jacket and his shirt, grinning at Oswald like he imagines a fox would a rabbit in the wild, and it’s not hard to figure out what’s going to happen next. Quickly, Oswald removes his shoes and his jacket.

“Victor Zsasz,” he says, drunkenly trying to undo the buttons on his vest, “if you throw me into this pool, I will _kill_ you.” 

“Fine,” Victor pops his back, takes two steps back, “I won’t throw you.” 

“Victor—“ Behind them, everyone else in the pool swims back away from the edge, “Vic, I _swear_ to god, if you—“ and maybe it’s because there’s no malice in his voice, maybe it’s because the situation demands leniency, but Victor takes a running start and tackles Oswald into the water, the both of them laughing when they come up for air.

None of them can remember the last time they allowed themselves to have this much fun, the last time they accepted the fact that sometimes, it’s okay to be a mess. It’s so hard to let go of the feeling that they _have_ to be put together, that they have to know what they’re doing, that they have to act their age. 

As they trudge up through the house, dripping water, the staff follows them closely. They gather up the ruined clothes, they leave pajamas for everyone on perfectly made beds— in the morning, as if by some form of miracle, all of their clothes have been dry cleaned, pressed and fixed up by the staff.

* * *

“Can we be ready to meet them around one?” Oswald asks, laying back in Ed’s bed so that he doesn’t have to look at all of the half-packed boxes that litter the dorm room. Jonathan has already left, ending his classes early to miss the end-of-semester rush, leaving Ed and Oswald alone in a building with a slowly shrinking population. 

“Oh,” Ed pulls a shirt out of one of his boxes, “was Victor serious about getting tattoos?” 

“So it seems,” tilting his head, Oswald stares shamelessly at Ed as he continues to look around his room shirtless, “do you not want to?”

“I want to,” he confirms, huffing when he can’t find what he’s looking for, “I didn’t think _you’d_ want to. Wouldn’t your mother have a fit if you got a tattoo?”

“Maybe. Then again, I am an adult,” when Ed finally puts a shirt on, Oswald clicks his tongue disapprovingly, “and I can do what I want. I’m sure she’ll survive.” 

* * *

As it turns out, Victor knows a guy who knows a guy who would be more than happy to spend the rest of his afternoon on tattoos for a group of twenty-somethings. “It’s the beauty of connections,” he says, and nobody questions just how Victor has made all of these so-called connections. Instead, they pile into the storefront of a tattoo parlor that sits between a craft store and a corner shop full of used books; Ed wonders if it would be rude to look at the bookstore while someone else gets their tattoo. 

It takes some time for everyone to sign paperwork, for them to hand the artist’s portfolio around and point out things they think are impressive, and Barbara immediately starts explaining ideas she has. She pushes her skirt up, gestures shamelessly to the outside of her hip, down her thigh; “Maybe a little low, though? I always wear shorts, I’d hate for it to be cut off.” 

“We can do that,” the artist says, smiling, “let me get something drawn up.” And once Barbara is under the needle, skirt folded up, settled in comfortably and tapping away at her phone; it suddenly doesn’t seem that scary. If Barbara can stand it, not even breaking a sweat, so unbothered that she can continue to take selfies throughout the entire ordeal, it can’t be that bad. 

“How old is this painting, anyway?” The artist asks, wiping away excess golden yellow ink. Barbara shrugs, and Ed just can’t help himself. 

“Klimt finished _The Kiss_ in 1908,” he leans subtly in to take a look at what has been finished on Barbara’s leg, “although in German, it’s called _Liebspaar,_ which more accurately translates to ‘Lovers.’ Isn’t that neat?” 

“I didn't know you knew about art, Eddie,” Barbara puts her phone down and gestures for Ed to take the stool next to the table she’s laying on, “got anything else?” 

“Um,” he sits down, surprised by how loud the buzzing of the tattoo gun really is. From the other side of the dividing wall, it doesn’t sound anywhere near as loud, “Shortly before _The Kiss_ , Klimt painted a series of three paintings, referred to as the _Vienna Ceiling_ series,” he takes off his glasses, rubbing them clean on his shirt before continuing. “ _Philosophy, Medicine,_ and _Jurisprudence_ — people responded poorly to them, called the works ‘pornographic.’ He had to threaten people with a shotgun to get his paintings back, but it worked.” 

“Dude sounds like a badass,” the artist pulls himself away from Barbara’s leg to laugh, looking down at his progress, “was the stuff really porn?” 

“No, not at all,” Ed pulls his phone out, enthusiastically pulling up pictures. “It’s assumed that the works were destroyed in 1945, during the war, but there are still photos,” he pushes his phone toward the artist, holding it as steady as possible so that the man doesn’t have to reach out for it himself. 

“Our Eddie knows a little bit about everything,” Barbara reaches for Ed’s arm, wanting to see the pictures for herself, “and a lot about certain things.” 

“Valedictorian?” He questions, going back to Barbara’s leg. 

“No, that—“

“That would be my girlfriend,” pointing out of the window in the dividing wall, Barbara guides attention toward Lee proudly, “she’s gonna be a doctor.” 

“And you’re not?”

“No,” Ed says, popping his knuckles absently, “I’m going to work in forensics.” 

“You’re getting a chemistry tattoo, aren’t you?” The artist cocks an eyebrow, offering Ed a kind smile when he starts to try and explain that while, yes, _acetylcholine_ is a chemical compound, that doesn’t necessarily make it a _chemistry_ tattoo. “I want you in my chair next, man.” 

* * *

Everyone fawns over Barbara’s leg, over the expanse of golds and yellows, the tiny pinpoints of blue and pink, the crisp, black lines. Of course, Barbara _loves_ it and is taking selfies in the mirror up until the artist has Ed sitting down. 

“You want me to get Ozzie?” Barbara asks him, reaching forward to pinch his cheek affectionately. “I think he and Lee went next door,” leaning in, she lowers her voice to a whisper, as if someone might hear her, “she’s a little nervous.” 

“When he gets back you can tell him I’m in here,” he offers, trying to hold as still as possible as the artist applies the design to the outside of his forearm. 

It isn’t hard for Ed to find things to ask questions about, places for him to redirect his attention, away from the feeling of the needle on his arm. He even goes so far as to explain to the artist how tattoos fare on the skin of corpses; he’s talking about putrefaction and skin composition when Oswald comes in. 

“Once,” Oswald interjects, kissing Ed on the forehead before sitting down beside him, “he tried to get me to agree to go to some place where they research corpses in nature as a vacation.” 

“It’s called a _body farm,_ ” he smiles, reaching out for Oswald’s hand, “and you didn’t say no.” 

“I’m considering it.”

“You gotta go in the winter,” the artist says, wrinkling up his nose, “otherwise, the smell. You know?”

“Predictably, the smell doesn’t bother Ed,” Oswald laughs, very casually trying to sneak looks at Ed’s arm. 

When it’s finished, everyone thinks it looks great, and while Oswald can’t explain it, he absolutely loves the tattoo. He thinks it has something to do with the fact that it’s so _Ed_ , that he’s so happy with how it’s turned out and how it’s going to look months down the line— Ed loves it, so Oswald does.

* * *

Victor’s tattoo is something snatched off of the flash art on the wall; a simple switchblade design, going down his calf. The whole time he’s getting it, he’s talking. To anyone who didn’t know him, it would look as though Victor weren’t having any trouble whatsoever, but when Barbara looks in at him, she knows. Everyone knows, because Victor _never_ talks that much. 

“Can you believe it’s a tattoo that breaks him down?” Barbara asks, peeking through the window at him.

“Figures,” Oswald shrugs, “he’s probably trying to prove something to himself.”

“I never thought Victor so introspective,” with his head on Oswald’s shoulder, Ed lazily swipes across the screen of his phone, “then again, maybe that’s what he’s doing when he isn’t talking.”

“No, dear. He told me once that when he’s not talking, he’s thinking about his next meal.” 

* * *

It takes Lee forever to explain her design to the artist, but he’s patient and understanding. He looks up pictures, and she helps with the design itself. The artist lays inks out in front of her and lets her pick colors and shades— “It’s your tattoo, I’m just putting it there. I want you to be happy with it.” And that makes it so much easier. 

She’s a bit of a control freak, and she knows that about herself. Sometimes, she wishes she weren’t, and then she remembers every single time that being in control saved her ass. It's worth it. 

The artist lets her get comfortable, trying to find the best way to give him access to the inside of her upper arm, while also being able to relax. It’s hard for her, to let go of control over a situation. She knows she’s in good hands, she’s seen the work he’s done on her friends, she doesn’t _doubt_ him. Despite that knowledge, she can’t banish the stress, so she just closes her eyes and thinks about what classes she might be able to take in the next semester. 

And all of a sudden, it's done. Suddenly, Barbara is there, hovering over her, teasing her for falling asleep. “You didn’t faint, right?” She asks, kissing Lee’s forehead sweetly, “I’d feel bad if you did.”

“No, I just— I guess I was tired,” Lee laughs, dimly aware of the feeling of saran wrap being put on her arm. 

“Take a look,” the artist is grinning widely, gesturing for Lee to get in front of the mirror. 

Everything is exactly as she’d dreamed it to be. She’s spent hours scribbling ideas and thoughts next to her rough design, rolling the idea over in her head until she’s nearly sick of it— and somehow, it’s perfect. An anatomically correct diagram of a heart, complete with the faded blues and reds that Lee sees her in various textbooks, just the right size that it doesn’t travel too far over the rest of her arm. Where she’s shown the artist, in the arteries, pink dahlia flowers emerge up and over her bicep— the vibrant pink looks _alive_ next to the faded heart. 

“Oh, my god,” is all she can say, biting down on her knuckles so that she doesn’t reach out to touch the tender skin. “You know,” she turns to Barbara, traces of laughter in her throat, “Jim would’ve had a _fit_ if I got a tattoo, when I was with him.”

“His loss," Barbara holds her around the waist, ”you look stunning.” 

* * *

“I’m not _scared_ ,” Oswald defends, wriggling in the chair. Everyone else, aside from Ed, has gone next door at his request. “I just don’t want to be— be stared at,” and Ed knows where this is all coming from, he's known Oswald long enough. It terrifies him, to be the center of attention in a situation where he isn’t in control. Making a scene, giving a practiced speech, commanding a group of people, intentionally diverting attention; Oswald is at his most powerful. This chair, in this small room, unable to get up and move; it’s completely opposite to his strength. And so, Ed sits and holds his hand, squeezing it reassuringly.

“I know you’re not scared,” he smiles, watching as the artist puts a few finishing touches on his stencil. Ed loves the design, the royal profile of a crow with flowers in his beak— through inferencing, Ed can assume that the specific flowers mean something, but he’s never been all that interested in the language of flowers. Oswald and Lee, on the other hand, both find it terribly romantic. 

As Oswald becomes settled with the sensation of the needles on his skin, Ed watches him fondly. Even now, so grown up and well adjusted, Oswald still struggles with being trustworthy of the people around him. It’s as if he thinks the tattoo artist will use his discomfort against him, although it’s something practically everyone experiences. Ed can’t really blame him; he knows that Oswald has been through plenty, that he’ll have to endure even more hardships before everything balances out for him. Still, he likes to think that one day, maybe, he’ll be able to see Oswald comfortable enough to walk into a building and command the room. Even without being prepared, even without a controlling position over those within— Ed knows that Oswald could be the type of person with a presence that swells, the type of person who doesn’t have to speak to be heard. Oswald is already so close to that, and Ed hangs onto every word he says as though it’s gospel— if only the rest of the world saw Oswald the way Ed did. 

“You’re staring at me,” Oswald says, making a pained attempt at a smile. Ed kisses him.

“Sorry,” when he looks out at the setting sun, Ed sees everyone standing around the front window. They wave at him, and he grins before waving back, “I was thinking.”

“Aren’t you always?” It’s so warm, the way Oswald looks at him, so knowingly. If Ed could bathe in that expression forever, he thinks he just might.

The finished tattoo is great, and when Oswald goes outside to show everyone, Lee fawns over the decision to have marigolds and rainflowers in the crow’s mouth. Oswald doesn’t say so until it’s just he and Ed in the car, driving back to Ed’s dorm, but he’s so happy with the tattoo that he can’t wait to show his mother. 

“I’m glad you were there,” he tells Ed, carefully pulling his shirt over his head, “I mean, I like everyone’s company, but—“ changing into his pajamas pauses him, having to sit down on the bed to get his pants over his bad leg, “I don’t know, it was good to have you next to me.” Oswald slides back across the bed, making room for Ed and his miles of limbs, then getting comfortable against his side. “I’ll just have to bring you with me everywhere, for the rest of my life.”

“Oh? You sure you won’t get sick of me?” Ed puts one arm behind Oswald’s head, drapes the other over his waist and brings him in close. 

“I haven’t yet. I don’t think I ever could,” as they share a beat of silence, a series of lazy kisses, Oswald feels laughter building up in his chest. “God, that was gross, wasn’t it? What the fuck.” 

“Terrible,” he hums, kissing Oswald’s forehead, “you’ll have to use the rest of your life trying to make up for it.” 

“I’d be happy to.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm back on my bullshit! 
> 
> i flip flopped a lot on tattoo ideas, on what i wanted to give the kids. ultimately, i went with shit that i thought was nifty as hell, and could also work with the way they've grown throughout this fic.   
> when i first started this fic, i wanted the kids to get tattoos, but i hadn't gotten one before, so i wasn't going to do it. then i went on a trip, made a great decision, and got a fucking riddler tattoo. so, you can thank my impulsivity for this chapter.   
> uhhh flowers
> 
> oswald's tattoo is a play on the peace dove w the laurel in its mouth? instead its a crow with flowers that stand for pain and grief (marigolds) and "i must atone for my sins" (rainflowers).   
> the flowers in lee's tattoo, pink dahlia blooms, mean elegance and dignity.   
> that's all i've got.
> 
> the next chapter is gonna be the end! (there may be a follow up epilogue, but i'm marking it complete after the next chapter! i'm so excited!) so keep an eye out! 
> 
> questions? concerns? admissions of guilt? broken dreams? you can tell me _all_ about it on tumblr!
> 
> i'm on tumblr as [ mayor-crumblepot ](https://mayor-crumblepot.tumblr.com) and i take requests there! so stop on by! 
> 
> thanks, y'all


	18. XVIII: finale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> happy endings, exceeding expectations, and finding a place and a person to call home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we made it. 

Oswald works a late midday to midnight shift at a club downtown. He cleans tables, he diffuses arguments, he makes drink recommendations, and he manages the passage of the various performers— the uniform is a very big step up from his apron and polo at the coffee shop. Something about wearing a suit every night, even if it’s only for a few hours, makes Oswald’s confidence skyrocket. 

Ed _really_ can’t complain, not at all. 

Not only does Oswald look like a fucking vision, but he’s making a very healthy sum of money. He gets paid more when he works weekends, any day that he comes in earlier than scheduled, he gets paid extra as well. His boss is extremely receptive to his work ethic, and if his generous pay has anything to do with the fact that he looks the other way when things seem a bit questionable in terms of the law? That’s none of his business. He puts on his name tag and doesn’t ask questions; that’s not his job. 

Barbara visits him at work often, chit chats with him about how she’s scoping out the business— “When I have enough money, I’m going to open up my own club,” she’ll gesture grandly with her hands, as if envisioning windows that overlook the city, a beautiful centerpiece bar, “and it’s going to be _beautiful_. Ladies’ll drink free, while men don’t.” That always makes Oswald laugh, he recommends to her that she ought to put _that_ in the inevitable marketing campaign she’ll have. 

While working at the club, Oswald has started renting himself a cheap little apartment— a bedroom, bathroom, kitchenette type of thing. Ed spends most of his time there, draped over Oswald’s mattress on the floor, playing his cheap keyboard that sits against the bedroom wall, waiting to hear back from various job applications. 

There are only so many places that hire people with Ed’s specific degree, but he’s racked up the internship hours, the apprenticeships; he’s put the work in, and it shows on his resumé. He hasn’t told Oswald about the applications— he doesn’t want to run the risk of such a public failure, if he were to be turned away from all five of his prospective employers. Instead, he cooks meals for them, he folds Oswald’s laundry when he’s at work, and he keeps himself busy. 

It works for about two weeks. By that time, he’s reorganized every cabinet and pantry, every bookcase, and he’s made a mess of Oswald’s record collection. 

“I want to organize alphabetically, obviously,” he says, sitting on the floor, surrounded by various stacks of aged vinyl, “but I’m considering a subsystem of release year, or perhaps even color scheme— I haven’t decided.” 

Oswald leaves him to it, and doesn’t ask questions. He plants a kiss on Ed’s forehead and keeps the television quiet as he works. If this is how the rest of his life will go, he doesn’t mind at all. 

 

There are two interviews Ed has to go through, with the GCPD, before they even consider him for his position. Of course, he passes through them both with flying colors, charming the captain with his enthusiasm. She looks the other way when he can’t have a firearm, removing the requirement from the job description before he can spiral into a mess. 

She sends him away that day with a promise to call about scheduling, as soon as she’s looked through the other applications. Ed doesn’t expect that to take as long as it does, but he’s alone when he finally gets the phone call. 

Oswald has just left for work, and Ed doesn’t know what to do with himself as he answers his phone. Pathetically, he thanks the captain over and over, tells her that he can start work _whenever_ she needs him to; he’s scheduled to start training that next morning. And even though he’s going to have a full eight hour shift ahead of him, he still stays up until Oswald comes home.

“Did I tell you I applied at the GCPD?” Ed asks, watching Oswald in the bathroom from his perch on the bed. 

“No,” Oswald’s voice is butchered around the toothbrush in his mouth, spitting before he tries to talk again, “when did you do that?”

“Few weeks ago,” he fidgets with his glasses, turning them over in his hands, “I went to a couple interviews, too.” Oswald continues brushing his teeth, but makes a gesture with his hands for Ed to continue talking, “I start tomorrow. Today, I guess? Captain Essen called me around six.” 

“You’re kidding,” the toothbrush in Oswald’s hand falls into the sink, which he quickly scrambles to rinse off, “Eddie, are you serious?” 

“Are you mad?” 

“What?” Painfully, Oswald comes limping over to the bed, face wrinkled up in confusion, “Why would I be mad?”

“I didn't tell you I was applying, and it’s a weird job, and—“ Ed stops talking when he feels Oswald’s hands on him, palms pressed to his cheeks firmly.

“I’m not mad,” he affirms, nearly amused. “Ed, I’m so _proud_ of you. You really didn’t need to wait up for me to come home, though. You’re going to be so tired tomorrow,” it’s almost painful, how sweetly Oswald runs his thumb over Ed’s cheek, smiling up at him. 

“That’s fine,” Ed disengages and leans back, grateful when Oswald follows him, “I just wanted to be sure I told you.” 

Despite having been informed of Ed’s new work situation, Oswald is still completely baffled when he finds himself with an empty bed beside him at five in the morning. He watches, tiredly, from the bed as Ed puts himself together in front of the mirror, tugging at cuffs and brushing his hair back. 

“You look great,” Oswald tells him, sighing deeply as he settles down into the pillows, “you’ll knock ‘em dead."

“Realistically," straightening his tie, Ed catches Oswald’s eye in his reflection, “most people I work with will already be dead.”

“That was the point, dear,” without Ed at his side, Oswald can drape his limbs across the bed inelegantly. 

“I love you,” Ed drops a kiss against Oswald’s cheek, picking up his wallet and phone from the bedside table. Lazily, Oswald pulls him back down to kiss him a few times, squarely. 

“Love you, too,” and as soon as Ed is out of the apartment, Oswald falls back asleep.

* * *

 

It takes about a year, but finally, Ed and Oswald manage to perfect the intersection of their two schedules. They have enough time every day to have an early dinner together, to sit and talk about what they’ve been doing, and they get to sleep together every night. It’s more than either of them could have ever hoped for, really. 

“We’re getting a new detective at work,” Ed says, making a plate for Oswald while he styles his hair, “after the last one had to resign.”

“Was that the one who threw a man off the bridge?” Peering around the doorframe, Oswald can’t help but smile at Ed. It’s a wonderful image, him with his sleeves rolled up, plates in hand— domesticity suits Ed beautifully. 

“Threw a _handcuffed_ man off the bridge,” he puts the plates down on their little table, going back into the kitchenette for silverware and cups. “Do you want wine?” 

“Of course I do,” Oswald comes in to take the silverware, setting it out while Ed pours their drinks. “Has the captain told you anything about them?” 

“No,” what little wine is left after the glasses are full, Ed drinks it straight from the bottle, “then again, she doesn’t tend to tell me much. I’m just nosy.” 

“Miss Mooney wants me to start ordering the spirits for the club,” idly, Oswald watches Ed taste his food first, to be sure it’s alright, “and to be completely honest, I have no idea how to balance a budget.” 

“I can help you if you bring it home tonight.” Where Ed wants to look up at Oswald and continue their conversation, he finds himself touched by the entire scene. He finds himself faintly emotional, looking at Oswald in his undershirt at the table, hair styled but makeup still not complete— it’s striking. It’s so normal, so routine, so _absolutely_ perfect. 

Oswald goes to work with lips kiss-swollen and a series of faint bruises going up the side of his neck. Just like old times, Barbara teases him for it when she comes in for her routine glass of white wine. 

 

The next day, when Ed hears noise in the bullpen and goes to investigate, he immediately recognizes the new detective. Oh _god_. 

“It’s James,” he says, holding his phone closely to his ear in the supply closet. Oswald barely sounds awake on the other end, groaning. “The new detective— Jim Gordon.”

“No shit,” Oswald stretches loudly, then sighs, “I thought he joined the military?”

“I don’t know— This feels _strange,_ Oswald.”

“It’ll be fine,” and he doesn’t sound particularly sure of it, but he’s trying his best, “you won’t even be working that closely with him.” 

Ed doesn’t have the heart to tell Oswald how untrue that is. Instead, he agrees, he thanks Oswald, and goes back to organizing blood samples. He dives into work with an intensity that only barely overshadows his stress, but it all comes to an end just as quickly as he’s found his stride. 

“Hey, I need a tech to—“ Jim stands in the doorway, almost perfectly frozen, and Ed looks over his microscope, like a deer trapped in headlights, like a guilty child. “No way!” Nothing prepares Ed for the look of excitement that covers Jim’s face, that brightens up every aspect of his features. Ultimately, Ed has never had problems with Jim Gordon. In high school, he kept out of his way until he had to stand up for Oswald, and even then, Ed doubted that Jim was as simple as his base emotions made him seem. It was plain to see, at least to Ed, that there was more going on with Jim than he led on— as a master of unhealthy coping mechanisms, Ed wasn’t particularly interested in judging. 

“Do I need to call you Detective Gordon, now?” Ed tries for a joke, hands clammy on his microscope. He knows that technically, he and Jim are on level playing field. It’s very likely that Ed gets paid _more_ than Jim does, actually, and he worries about how that will go over; about how any of this will go over. 

“Shit,” Jim’s laughter bounces off sterile walls, and he’s never seemed more balanced, “of course you don’t. I need a tech for a crime scene, you wanna ride with me? We can catch up on the way.” 

There are plenty of reasons for him to turn Jim down, and all of them coast across Ed’s mind before he stands up from his stool. “Sure,” he says, reaching for his travel kit and his jacket, “that’d be great.” 

And it turns out to be painless. It turns out to be comfortable, turns out to be completely harmless, and Ed is happy to talk to Jim about everything he’s done since they’ve last seen one another. He shows Jim his tattoo, he tells Jim about Oswald’s work, and Jim sounds genuinely interested. 

Deep down, Ed feels bad for doubting that Jim would react any differently. 

Even if Jim seems a little put off by the enthusiasm Ed has about the corpse in front of them, even if he hesitates before answering Ed’s simple little riddles— Jim is nothing if he isn’t mature. He’s grown a lot, and Ed is glad to see that. 

“Jim deserves happiness," Oswald says that night, curling up next to Ed.

“That’s very generous of you,” Ed has a hand running through Oswald’s hair, twisting away the remaining bits of product in it. 

“I suppose,” he hums, taking a long breath in and then settling back down, “with time, I’ve learned to be a bit generous. Only a bit, though.”

* * *

 

Barbara invites everyone to an event, strictly formal, at a new bar downtown called The Sirens. The location touts itself as being a more _female-friendly_ locale for those looking to have a night to themselves, or with friends. With the invitations, they send the specialty drink menus; Oswald starts circling things he’s interested in when he reads that “all drinks will be paid for by the generous owner.” 

Of course, neither he nor Ed are prepared for all of the information they’re provided upon their arrival. In Ed’s mind, the details go as follows, in a very nicely categorized list, color coded with cute bullet point designs:

  * Barbara Kean is in a very beautiful wedding dress.
  * Leslie Thompkins is _also_ in a very beautiful wedding dress, albeit more simple.
  * The entire bar is decorated in elegant streamers and balloons; extravagant. 
  * It’s barely nine in the evening, but Barbara is already drinking from a bottle of champagne.
  * Barbara’s name is written _everywhere_ on the club paperwork that’s plastered around the walls. It seems, upon some dazed reasoning, that Barbara owns this club. That she’s opened up a club without any of their knowledge, that she’s put together an entire staff, an entire ambience— without anyone knowing.



“How could we have missed this?” Oswald asks, clutching more tightly to Ed’s arm, “I mean, she was at Fish Mooney’s every night, it just doesn’t make sense—“

“And it’s a wedding,” almost childishly, Ed is craning his neck around to look at all of the little details everywhere.

“It’s a wedding,” he confirms, steering Ed toward the bar, “and I need a drink.”

Just like the brides themselves, the wedding is beautiful, and everyone is overjoyed. Despite being given no time to prepare, Oswald gives a particularly heartfelt speech, and barely anyone can tell he’s a little drunk when he does so. Amazingly, despite all of the risks and possible mishaps that could come up from a surprise wedding, things go off without a hitch. Without many hitches, rather.

Instead of throwing the bouquet after everything, Leslie comes over to Oswald and pushes the flowers into his hands. Repeatedly, he tries to give them back, to make Leslie take them back and throw it— she refuses. She folds his fingers around the ribbon wrapped stems, gives him a wide smile and a very purposeful nod. It’s hard to turn her down after that. 

* * *

“Apparently,” Oswald starts, holding a secondhand purchased laptop in his lap, draped out on the bed, “there’s a new neighborhood just behind downtown.”

“How new is _new_?” 

“A few years,” he scrolls down slowly, looking over the words and pictures on his screen, “rent’s real low because nobody wants to live so close to the clubs.” 

“Huh,” Ed stops pacing, work file in hand, “like— like little houses, with yards?” 

“Oh, Eddie,” playfully, Oswald looks over his laptop screen at Ed, “got a thing for white picket fences?” It’s quickly apparent, just as soon as he’s said it, that Ed very surely does. As long as he’s been alive, Ed has been living in excess, and as much as he knows that to be a blessing, it causes him stress. Most of all, wherever Oswald is, that’s where he wants to be. “You know,” Oswald tries, gesturing for Ed to come sit beside him, “some of these places are up for rent, and _sometimes_ they have snacks at the open house events. We could make a day of it.” 

Oswald is prepared for a wealth of sales pitches, stale donuts, and coffee that barely lives up to being much more than hot water. He’s not prepared to fall head over heels in love with a house that they stop to look at, beautiful in its vintage glory. Despite being built recently, the home is made with a certain flair that tugs at Oswald’s heartstrings, an aesthetic that makes Ed practically swoon. 

“The rent isn’t even half what we make together,” Oswald tells him, both hands sweating around the handle of his cane, “and it has one of those kitchen windows that overlooks the side yard. You know, the ones with the short blinds.”

“Valence,” he informs, staring at the aforementioned window fondly. “This could be really nice,” Ed considers the little leaflet he’d been handed at the door, the square footage and the surrounding schools, “and it’s _so_ close to work, for the both of us.” 

“We should do it.” 

“We— what?”

“We should do it, Eddie,” whenever Oswald gets an idea, whenever passion overtakes him, he gets a wild brightness in his eyes that Ed can never say no to. The real question he has to ask himself is; does he want to? Does he _ever_ want to say no to Oswald? Of course not. “You could put your keyboard over there, and we could get you a really nice desk for your work stuff and you could finally stop taping corpses up on the wall, and—“ 

“We should.” Logically, they should talk this through. They should debate costs, they should talk about saving up— but if Ed has learned anything about being with Oswald, it’s that he need to take chances. 

And suddenly there’s paperwork in their hands, and they’re singing leases and paying deposits. All of a sudden it’s been weeks, and they’re shoving all of their things into the back seat of Ed’s car, putting boxes into various room corners and imagining how everything will look once it’s finished. Of course, it all looks better, after the details get smoothed out. Ed learns how to fix things around the house, screws little things into the ceiling so that they can have kitschy overhead lighting, helps Oswald paint walls daring shades of purple and green.

The house looks like them, looks like everything they’ve built together— there’s abstract art prints Ed bought Oswald on the walls, there’s beakers and vials sitting on the windowsills, a third bedroom turned office for every one of Ed’s gruesome little work files. 

It’s where they’ll always come back to, it’s the promise that they don’t have to do anything alone, ever agin, unless they want to. It’s the assurance that they aren’t going to be left behind, that even if the world goes sideways they’ll always be there, standing next to one another. It’s where they’re going to argue, where they’re going to lose keys, to fall asleep in the middle of the day, to burn romantic dinners and stain the carpet with wine— it’s where Oswald will chug his glass of wine when Ed proposes to him, sweaty and nervous, as if Oswald could say anything other than yes. 

It’s a happy ending. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i love these kids so much. i really do. i'm happy to write them into comfortable happiness. 
> 
> i know there's so many things about this that lack a real-world flair. the world is a difficult and unhappy place, there are evils everywhere; in our lives, very surely there would be in gotham, too. and while i know it's unreasonable to consider a group of kids, high school friends, as all likely to live their own happy endings— i couldn't choose to do anything else.   
> very rarely do things work out so well. so, of course, i wanted to give these kids a chance, and have them see those chances through to the end, happily. 
> 
> to those of you who have been here this whole time: thank you.  
> to those of you who will be reading this in one sitting, because it's finally completed: thank you, also. 
> 
> i hope that my attempt to rationalize my own fears in the form of a fan fiction where things Work Out Right has been able to bring some of y'all happiness, too. that's all i've ever wanted, is to make people happy. thanks for continuing to be part of this work, for watching me grow alongside these characters, and for dealing with all of my silly typos along the way. 
> 
> see y'all next time.
> 
> talk to me on tumblr— i'm [ mayor-crumblepot ](https://mayor-crumblepot.tumblr.com)


End file.
